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So there they were at last, the dream of half a life time. Id 475.1 

«/ ~ — » 



t 


Y N E W 
CURATE 

A STORY 

Gathered from the Stray 
Leaves of an Old Diary 


y 

By the Rev. P. A. SHEEHAN, P. P. 

DONERAILE (DIOCESE OF CLOYNE) 

Author of 11 Geoffrey Austin: Student,” 

“The Triumph of Failure,” ©V. ' 




MARNIER, CALLANAN, & COMPANY 

^ • n ^ 8^9 






TWO copies received. 
Ubrary of Congress 
Office of the 

Dtu 1 2 


Register 


of Copyrights. 

oa3 


Copyright, 1899 

By Marlier, Callanan, and Company 

All rights reserved 


ScCJND COPY, 

a*. 4--^^ 


NOTE. 

“ My New Curate ” originally appeared as a 
serial in the “ American Ecclesiastical Review.” 
Through the courtesy of the Editor, it is now 
reprinted in book form, with original illustrations 
by Louis Meynell. 


The Publishers. 










■ 






. 





































































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» 





































































. 








Contents 


Chapter Page 

I. The Change i 

II. A Retrospect 14 

III. A Night Call 23 

IV. The Pantechnicon 34 

V. A Slight Misunderstanding .... 48 

VI. At the Station 61 

VII. Scruples 74 

VIII. Our Concert 83 / 

IX. Severely Reprimanded 97 

X. Over the Walnuts, and the . 113 

XI. Beside the Singing River 129 

XII. Church Improvements 140 f 

XIII. “All Things to All Men” 154 

XIV. First Fridays 170 / 

XV. Holly and Ivy 187 / 

XVI. Violent Contrasts 205 

XVII. A Clerical Symposium 226 

XVIII. The Kampaner Thal 241 

XIX. Literary Attempts 255 

XX. Madonna Mia 272 

XXI. The Factory 297 / 


Contents 


viii 

Chapter Page 

XXII. The May Conference 314 

XXIII. A Battle of Giants 330 

XXIV. The Sermon 347 

XXV. May Devotions 362 

XXVI. At the Zenith 376 

XXVII. The “Star of the Sea” 392 

XXVIII. Sub Nube 408 

XXIX. Stigmata ? 427 

XXX. All’s Well 447 

XXXI. Farewell! 473 


Ill ustrations 


“ So there they were at last, the dream of half a life- 
time ” Frontispiece 

“You will take something?” I said. “You have 


had a long drive” facing io 

“My door was suddenly flung open, and a bunch of 

keys was thrown angrily on the table ” . . . . 49 

“ Do you call that clean ? ” 54 

“ Here I am, your Reverence ! ” .... facing 56 

“ Good Heavens! ” was all I could say . . facing 94 


“ The orator was caught by the nape of the neck ” . 133 

“ ’T is the way we wants to go to confession, Fader ” . 176 

“ And why don’t you tell his reverence about the rice 

puddin’ ? ” 223 

“It broke in my fingers and revealed the little dreams 

and ambitions of nearly forty years ago ” ... 262 

“ Was there anything wrong with the chicken ? ” facing 294 

“ I read that over three times to make quite sure of it” 319 

“ Ahem ! — Reginald Ormsby, wilt thou take Mrs. 

Darcy — ” facing 388 

“ Come down to Mrs. Haley’s ; there is n’t a better 

dhrop betune this and Dublin ”... facing 448 


X 


Illustrations 


Page 

“ Come on, you ruffian ! ” 449 

“ Hallo, there ! . . . who the are ye ? ” . facing 464 

“For the love of God, Jem, is ’t yourself or your 
ghost ? ” 

Waiting for my New Curate 


451 

475 


MY NEW CURATE 

Gathered from Stray Leaves of an Old 
Diary by an Irish Parish Priest 

9 

CHAPTER I 

THE CHANGE 

It is all my own fault. I was too free with my 
tongue. I said in a moment of bitterness : “ What 
can a Bishop do with a parish priest? He ’s inde- 
pendent of him.” It was not grammatical, and it 
was not respectful. But the bad grammar and the 
impertinence were carried to his Lordship, and he 
answered : “ What can I do? I can send him a 
curate who will break his heart in six weeks.” 

I was not too much surprised, then, when one 
evening my dear old friend and curate, Father Tom 
Laverty, came to me, with tears in his eyes and an 
open letter in his hand : — 

“ I am off, Father Dan. Look at this ! ” 

It was a succinct, laconic order to present him- 
self to a parish priest twenty miles distant, and to 
be in time to discharge his duties in that parish the 
following Saturday and Sunday, for his jurisdiction 
was transferred, etc. 


2 


My New Curate 

It was a hard stroke. I was genuinely attached 
to Father Tom. We had the same tastes and 
habits, — easy, contented, conservative, with a 
cordial dislike of innovations of any kind. We 
held the same political opinions, preached the 
same sermons, administered the Sacraments in 
the old way, and had a reverence for antiqui- 
ties in general. It was a sad break in my 
life to part with him ; and it is a harmless vanity 
on my part to say that he was sorry to part from 
me. 

“ I suppose there ’s no help for it? ” said he. 

“ No,” said I ; “ but if you care — ” 

“ No use,” said he ; “ when he has made up his 
mind you might as well be talking to a mile- 
stone.” 

“ And you must be off to-morrow? ” said I, con- 
sulting the bishop’s letter. 

“ Yes,” said he, “ short shrift.” 

“ And who am I getting? ” I wondered. 

“ Hard to guess,” said he. He was in no humor 
for conversation. 

The following week, that most melancholy of pro- 
cessions, a curate’s furniture en route , filed slowly 
through the village, and out along the highroad, 
that led through bog and fen, and by lake borders 

to the town of N . First came three'loads of 

black turf, carefully piled and roped; then two 
loads of hay ; a cow with a yearling calf; and lastly, 
the house furniture, mostly of rough deal. The 


The Change 3 

articles, that would be hardly good enough for one 
of our new laborers’ cottages, were crowned by a 
kitchen table, its four legs pointing steadily to the 
firmament, like an untrussed fowl’s, and between 
them, carefully roped, was the plague and the pet 
of the village, Nanny the goat, with her little kid 
beside her. What Nanny could not do in the way 
of mischief was so insignificant, that it need not 
be told. But the Celtic vocabulary, particularly 
rich in expletives, failed to meet the ever-growing 
vituperative wants of the villagers. They had to 
fall back on the Saxon, and call her a “ rep,” “ a 
rip,” “ de ribble,” etc., etc. I walked side by side 
with Father Laverty, who, with head bent on his 
breast, scarcely noticed the lamentations of the 
women, who came to their cross-doors, and poured 
out a Jeremiad of lamentations that made me think 
my own well-meant ministrations were but scantily 
appreciated. 

“ Wisha, God be wid you, Father, wherever you 
go!” 

“ Wisha, may your journey thry wid you. Sure 
’tis we ’ll miss you ! ” 

“ Yerra, what’ll the poor do now, whin he’s 
gone? ” 

“Bishop, inagh, ’tis aisy for him wid his ring 
and his mitre, and his grand carriage. Could n’t 
he let him alone?” 

“Father,” said a young girl, earnestly, her 
black hair blinding her eyes, “ may God be with 


4 My New Curate 

you/’ She ran after him. “ Pray for me,” she 
whispered. “ You don’t know all the good you 
done me.” She had n’t been very sensible. 

He turned towards her. 

“Yes! Nance, I’ll remember you. And don’t 
forget all that I told you.” 

He held out his hand. It was such an honor, 
such a condescension, that she blushed scarlet: 
and hastily rubbing her hand in her apron, she 
grasped his. 

“ May God Almighty bless you,” she said. 

But the great trial came when we were passing 
the school-house. It was after three o’clock, the 
time for breaking up : and there at the wall were all 
the little boys and the sheilas with their wide eyes 
full of sorrow. He passed by hastily, never look- 
ing up. His heart was with these children. I 
believe the only real pleasure he ever allowed 
himself was to go amongst them, teach them, 
amuse them, and listen to their little songs. And 
now — 

“Good by, Father — ” 

“ Good by, Father — ” 

Then, Alice Moylan gave a big “ boo-hoo ! ” 
and in a moment they were all in tears ; and I, 
too, began to wink, in a queer way, at the 
landscape. 

At last, we came to the little bridge that humps 
itself over the trout stream. Many a summer 
evening we had made this the terminus of our 


The Change 5 

evening’s walk; for I was feeble enough on my 
limbs, though my head is as clear as a boy’s of 
seventeen. And here we used to lean over the 
parapet, and talk of all things, politics, literature 
(the little we knew of it), the old classics, college 
stories, tales of the mission, etc. ; and now we were 
to part. 

“ Good by, Father Tom,” I said. “You know, 
there ’s always a bite and a sup and a bed, when- 
ever you come hither. Good by. God knows, 
I ’m sorry to part with you.” 

“ Good by,” he said. Not another word. I 
watched and waited, till I saw the melancholy 
procession fade away, and until he became a 
speck on the horizon. Then, with a heavy heart 
I turned homewards. 

If I had the least doubt about the wonderful 
elasticity of the Irish mind, or its talent for adap- 
tation, it would have been dispelled as I passed 
again through the village. I had no idea I was so 
popular, or that my little labors were so warmly 
appreciated. 

“ Well, thank God, we have himself whatever.” 

Gentle reader, “himself” and “ herself” are two 
pronouns, that in our village idioms mean the 
master and mistress of the situation, beyond whom 
there is no appeal. 

“ Wisha, the Lord spare him to us. God help 
us, if he wint.” 

“ The heads of our Church, God spare them 


6 My New Curate 

long ! Wisha, your reverence might have a cop- 
per about you to help a poor lone widow? ” 

I must say this subtle flattery did not raise my 
drooped spirits. I went home, sat down by my 
little table, and gave myself up to gloomy re- 
flections. 

It must have been eight o’clock, or more, for 
the twilight had come down, and my books and 
little pictures were looking misty, when a rat-tat- 
tat rang at the door. I did n’t hear the car, for 
the road was muddy, I suppose; but I straight- 
ened myself up in my arm-chair, and drew my 
breviary towards me. I had read my Matins and 
Lauds for the following day, before dinner; I al- 
ways do, to keep up the old tradition amongst the 
Irish priests ; but I read somewhere that it is al- 
ways a good thing to edify people who come to 
see you. And I did n’t want any one to suspect 
that I had been for a few minutes asleep. In a 
moment, Hannah, my old housekeeper, came in. 
She held a tiny piece of card between her fingers, 
which were carefully covered with her check apron, 
lest she should soil it. I took it — while I asked — 

“Who is it? ” 

“ I don’t know, your reverence.” 

“ Is ’t a priest? ” 

“ No, but I think he ’s a gintleman,” she whis- 
pered. “ He talks like the people up at the great 
house.” 

She got a candle, and I read : — 


7 


The Change 

Rev. Edward Letheby, B. A., C. C. 

“ ’T is the new curate,” I said. 

“ Oyeh,” said Hannah, whose dread and ad- 
miration for the “ strange gintleman ” evaporated, 
when she found he was a mere curate. 

I went out and welcomed with what warmth I 
could my new cooperator. It was too dark for 
me to see what manner of man he was; but I 
came to some rapid conclusions from the way he 
spoke. He bit off his words, as riflemen bite 
their cartridges, he chiselled every consonant, and 
gave full free scope to every vowel. This was all 
the accent he had, an accent of precision and de- 
termination and formalism, that struck like a knell, 
clear and piercing on my heart. 

“ I took the liberty of calling, Sir,” he said, 
“ and I hope you will excuse my troubling you 
at such an unseasonable hour; but I am utterly 
unacquainted with the locality, and I should be 
thankful to you if you would refer me to a 
hotel.” 

“ There ’s but one hotel in the village,” I re- 
plied slowly. “ It has also the advantage of being 
the post-office, and the additional advantage of 
being an emporium for all sorts of merchandise, 
from a packet of pins to Reckitt’s blue, and 
from pigs’ crubeens to the best Limerick flitches. 
There ’s a conglomeration of smells,” I continued, 
“ that would shame the City on the Bosphorus ; 
and there are some nice visitors there now in the 


8 My New Curate 

shape of two Amazons who are going to give 
selections from * Maritana * in the school-house 
this evening ; and a drunken acrobat, the leavings 
of the last circus.” 

“ Good heavens,” he said under his breath. 

I think I astonished him, as I was determined to 
do. Then I relented, as I had the victory. 

“ If, however,” said I, “you could be content 
with the humble accommodation and poor fare that 
this poor presbytery affords, I shall be delighted 
to have you as my guest, until you can secure 
your own little domicile.” 

“ I thank you very much, Sir,” said he, “ you 
are extremely kind. Would you pardon me a 
moment, whilst I dismiss the driver and bring in 
my portmanteau ? ” 

He was a little humbled and I was softened. 
But I was determined to maintain my dignity. 

He followed me into the parlor, where the lamp 
was now lighting, and I had a good opportunity of 
observing him. I always sit with my back to the 
light, which has the double advantage of obscur- 
ing my own features and lighting up the features 
of those whom I am addressing. He sat opposite 
me, straight as an arrow. One hand was gloved ; 
he was toying gently with the other glove. But 
he was a fine fellow. Fairly tall, square shoul- 
dered, not a bit stout, but clean cut from head to 
spur, I thought I should not like to meet him in a 
wrestling bout, or try a collision over a football. 


The Change 9 

He had a mass of black hair, glossy and curled, 
and parted at the left side. Large, blue-black 
luminous eyes, that looked you squarely in the 
face, were hardly as expressive as a clear mouth 
that now in repose seemed too quiet even for 

breathing. He was dressed ad . Pardon me, 

dear reader, I have had to brush up my classics, 
and Horace is like a spring eruption. There was 
not a line of white visible above his black collar ; 
but a square of white in front, where the edges 
parted. A heavy chain hung from his vest; and 
his boots glistened and winked in the lamplight. 

“You’ll take something?” I said. “You have 
had a long drive.” 

“ If not too much trouble,” he said, “ I ’ll have a 
cup of tea.” 

I rang the bell. 

“ Get a cup of tea, Hannah,” I said. 

“A cup of wha — at?” queried Hannah. She 
had the usual feminine contempt for men that 
drink tea. 

“ A cup of tea,” I said decisively, “ and don’t 
be long.” 

“ Oyeh ! ” said Hannah. But she brought in a 
few minutes later the tea and hot cakes that would 
make an alderman hungry, and two poached eggs 
on toast. I was awfully proud of my domestic 
arrangements. But I was puzzled. Hannah was 
not always so courteous. She explained next 
day. 


IO 


My New Curate 

“ I did n’t like him at all, at all,” she said, “ but 
whin I came out and saw his portmanty all brass 
knobs, and took up his rug, whew ! it was that soft 
and fine it would do to wrap up the Queen, I said 
to myself, ‘ this is a gintleman, Hannah ; who 
knows but he’s the Bishop on his tower.’” 

“ I hope you like your tea? ” I said. 

“ It’s simply delicious,” he answered. 

He ate heartily. Poor fellow, he was hungry 
after a long drive ; but he chewed every morsel 
as a cow would chew the cud on a lazy summer 
afternoon, without noise or haste, and he lifted my 
poor old china cup as daintily as if it were Sevres. 
Then we fell to talking. 

“ I am afraid,” I said tentatively, “ that you ’ll 
find this place dull after your last mission. But 
have you been on the mission before? ” 

“Oh yes, Father,” he said, “I thought the 
Bishop might have written to you.” 

“Well,” I said, “I had reason to know you 
were coming; but the Bishop is rather laconic in 
his epistles. He prides himself on his virtue of 
reticence.” 

I said this, because it would never do to let him 
suppose that the Bishop would send me a curate 
without letting me know of it. And I thought I 
was using select language, an opinion which, after 
the nine years and more of Horace, I have no 
reason to alter. 

“ My only mission hitherto,” he said, “ has been 


You will take something- ? ” I said. “ Y 7 ou have had a long- drive. 









































The Change 1 1 

in Manchester, at St. Chad’s. It was a populous 
mission, and quite full of those daily trials and 
contingencies that make life wearisome to a priest. 
I confess I was not sorry to have been called 
home.” 

“ But you had society,” I interjected, “ and 
unless you wish to spend an hour at the constabu- 
lary barracks, you must seek your society here in 
an occasional conversazione with some old woman 
over her cross-door, or a chat with the boys at the 
forge — ” 

“ But I have got my books, Father,” he said, 
“ and I assure you I want some time to brush up 
the little I have ever read. I have n’t opened a 
serious book for seven years.” 

This was candid ; and it made me warm towards 
him. 

“ Then,” I said, “ there ’s no use in preaching 
fine English sermons, they won’t be understood. 
And you must be prepared for many a night call 
to mountain cabins, the only access to which is 
through a bog or the bed of a' mountain stream ; 
and your income will reach the princely sum of 
sixty pounds per annum. But,” I added hastily, 
“ you ’ll have plenty of turf, and oats and hay for 
your horse, an occasional pound of butter, and 
you ’ll have to export all the turkeys you ’ll get at 
Christmas.” 

“ You have painted the lights and shadows, 
Father,” he said cheerily, “ and I am prepared to 


12 My New Curate 

take them together. I am sure I ’ll like the poor 
people. It won’t be my fault.” 

Then my heart rose up to this bright, cheery, 
handsome fellow, who had no more pride in him 
than a barelegged gossoon ; and who was prepared 
to find his pleasure amongst such untoward sur- 
roundings. But I did n’t like to let myself out as 
yet. I had to keep up some show of dignity. 

My education commenced next morning. He 
had served my mass, and said his own in my 
little oratory; and he came down to breakfast, 
clean, alert, happy. I asked him how he had 
slept. 

“ Right well,” he said, “ I never woke till I 
heard some far off bell in the morning.” 

“ The six o’clock bell at the great house,” I 
replied. “ But where are you going? ” 

“Nowhere, Sir,” said he, “ I understood I was 
to remain over Sunday.” 

“ But you ’re shaved? ” said I. 

“ Oh yes,” he said, with the faintest ripple of a 
smile. “ I could n’t think of sitting down to 
breakfast, much less of celebrating the Holy 
Sacrifice, without shaving.” 

“ And you have a clean collar. Do you mean 
to say you change your collar every morning?” 

“ Certainly, Sir,” he said. 

“Poor Father Tom!” I exclaimed mentally, 
“ this is a change.” But I said nothing; but sent 
out my razors in the afternoon to be set. 


The Change 13 

There was a letter from the Bishop. It ran 
thus : — 

My dear Father Dan : — I have thought it neces- 
sary to make a change of curates in your parish. I 
have removed Father Laverty on promotion ; and I am 
sending you one of the most promising young priests in 
my diocese. He has just returned from England, where 
he won golden opinions from the people and the priests. 
I may mention that he was an exhibitioner under the 
Intermediate System ; and took a gold medal for Greek. 
Perhaps you will stimulate him to renew his studies in 
that department, as he says he has got quite rusty from 
want of time to study. Between you both, there will be 
quite an Academia at Kilronan. 

Yours in Christ. 

“Clever, my Lord,” I soliloquized, “clever!” 
Then, as the “ gold medal in Greek ” caught my 
eye again, I almost let the letter fall to the ground ; 
and I thought of his Lordship’s words: “ I can 
send him a curate who will break his heart in six 
weeks.” But as I looked over my cup at Father 
Letheby, I could n’t believe that there was any 
lurking diablerie there. He looked in the morn- 
ing a frank, bright, cheery, handsome fellow. But, 
will he do? 


CHAPTER II 


A RETROSPECT , 

Long ago, when I used to read an occasional 
novel, if the author dared to say: “But I am 
anticipating; we must go back here twenty years 
to understand the thread of this history,” I invari- 
ably flung down the book in disgust. The idea of 
taking you back to ancient history when you were 
dying to know what was to become of the yellow- 
haired Blumine, or the grand chivalrous Roland. 
Well, I am just going to commit the very same 
sin ; and, dear reader, be patient just a little while. 

It is many years since I was appointed to the 
parish of Kilronan. It happened in this wise. 
The Bishop, the old man, sent for me ; and said, 
with what I would call a tone of pity or contempt, 
but he was incapable of either, for he was the 
essence of charity and sincerity : — 

“ Father Dan, you are a bit of a litterateur, I 
understand. Kilronan is vacant. You’ll have 
plenty of time for poetizing and dreaming there. 
What do you say to it? ” 

I put on a little dignity, and, though my heart 
was beating with delight, I quietly thanked his 
Lordship. But, when I had passed beyond the 


K 


A Retrospect i 5 

reach of episcopal vision, which is far stretching 
enough, I spun my hat in the air, and shouted like 
a schoolboy : “ Hurrah ! ” 

You wonder at my ecstasies ! Listen. I was a 
dreamer, and the dream of my life, when shut up 
in musty towns, w ere the atmosphere was redolent 
of drink, and _ heard nothing but scandal, and 
saw nothing but sin, — the dream of my life was a 
home by the sea, with its purity and freedom, and 
its infinite expanse, telling me of God. For, from 
the time when as a child the roar of the surges set 
my pulse beating, and the scents of the weed and 
the brine would make me turn pale with pleasure, 
I used to pray that some day, when my life’s work 
would be nearly done, and I had put in my years 
of honest labor in the dusty streets, I might spend 
my declining years in the peace of a seaside village, 
and go down to my grave, washed free from the 
contaminations of life in the daily watching and 
loving of those 

“ Moving waters at their priestlike task 
Of cold ablution round earth’s human shores.” 

My wish was realized, and I was jubilant. 

Returning home by train, when my emotion had 
calmed down, my mind could not help recurring 
to the expression used by the Bishop ; and it sug- 
gested the following reflections : How has it come 
to pass in Ireland that “ poet ” and “saint” are 
terms which denote some weakness or irregularity 


1 6 My New Curate 

in their possessors? At one time in our history 
we know that the bard was second only to the King 
in power and influence ; and are we not vaguely 
proud of that title the world gives us, — Island of 
Saints? Yet, nowadays, through some fatal de- 
generacy, a poet is looked upon as an idealist, an 
unpractical builder of airy cas.tles, to whom no one 
would go for advice in an important matter, or in- 
trust with the investment of a five-pound note. 
And to speak of a man or woman as a “ saint ” is 
to hint at some secret imbecility, which it would 
be charitable to pass over in silence. I was quite 
well aware, therefore, on that day, when I had the 
secret pleasure and the sublime misfortune of see- 
ing my name in print over some wretched verses, 
that I was ruining my prospects in life. The fact 
of being a litterateur, although in the most modest 
and hidden manner, stamped me as a volatile, 
flighty creature, who was no more to be depended 
upon than a feather in the wind ; or, as the Italians 
say, qii al piume al vento. It is a curious prejudice, 
and a purely insular one. And sometimes I think, 
or rather I used to think, that there was something 
infinitely grotesque in these narrow ideas, that shut 
us out from sympathy with the quick moving, 
subtle world as completely as if we were fakirs by 
the banks of the sacred Ganges. For what does 
modern literature deal with? Exactly those ques- 
tions of philosophy, ethics, and morality which 
form the staple material of theological studies and 


A Retrospect 1 7 

discussions in our own colleges and academies. 
Novels, poetry, essays, lectures, treatises on the 
natural sciences, — all deal with the great central 
questions of man’s being, his origin, and his con- 
duct. And surely it is folly to ignore these dis- 
cussions in the market places of the world, because 
they are literature, and not couched in scholastic 
syllogisms. Dear me ! I am philosophizing, — I, 
old Daddy Dan, with the children plucking at my 
coat-tails and the brown snuff staining my waist- 
coat, and, ah, yes ! the place already marked in my 
little chapel, where I shall sleep at last. I must 
have been angry, or gloomy, that day, thirty years 

ago, when I stepped on the platform at M , 

after my interview with the Bishop, and met my 
friends, who had already become aware that I was 
elevated out of the junior ranks, and had become 
an independent officer of the Church Militant. 

“ You don’t mean to say that you have accepted 
that awful place?” said one. 

“ You ’ll have nothing but fish to eat,” said an- 
other. “ The butcher’s van goes there but once 
a week.” 

“And no society but fishermen,” said a third. 
* 

“ And they speak nothing but Irish, and you know 
you cannot bless yourself in Irish.” 

“Well,” I replied, “my Job’s comforters, I have 
accepted Kilronan, and am going there. If all 
things go well, and you are good boys, I may ask 
for some of you as curate — ” 


2 


1 8 My New Curate 

H You ’ll be glad to get a curacy yourself in six 
months,” they shouted in chorus. 

And so I came to Kilronan, and here have I 
been since. The years have rolled by swiftly. 
Life is a coach, whose wheels move slowly and 
painfully at the start; but, once set moving, par- 
ticularly when going down the deep decline of life, 
the years move so swiftly you cannot see the spokes 
in the wheels, which are the days we number so 
sadly. What glorious resolutions I made the first 
months of my residence here ! How I would read 
and write and burn the midnight oil, and astonish 
the world, and grow from dignity to dignity into 
an honored old age ! Alas ! circumstances are too 
much for us all, and here I am, in my seventieth 
year, poor old Daddy Dan, with no great earthly 
trouble, indeed, and some few consolations, — my 
breviary and the grand psalms of hope, — my 
daily Mass and its hidden and unutterable sweet- 
ness, — the love of little children and their daily 
smiles, — the prayers of my old women, and, I 
think, the reverence of the men. But there comes 
a little sting sometimes, when I see young priests, 
who served my Masses long ago, standing in ca- 
thedral stalls in all the glory of purple and ermine, 
and when I see great parishes passing into the 
hands of mere boys, and poor old Daddy Dan 
passed over in silence. I know, if I were really 
good and resigned, I would bless God for it all, 
and I do. But human nature will revolt some- 


A Retrospect 1 9 

times, and people will say, “ What a shame, Father 
Dan ; why have n’t you the red buttons as well as 
so and so,” or, “ What ails the Bishop, passing 
over one of the most learned men in the diocese 
for a parcel of gossoons ! ” I suppose it was my 
own fault. I remember what magnificent ideas I 
had. I would build factories, I would ferr the 
streets, I would establish a fishing station and make 
Kilronan the favorite bathing resort on the west- 
ern coast; I would write books and be, all round, 
a model of push, energy, and enterprise. And I 
did try. I might as well have tried to remove 
yonder mountain with a pitchfork, or stop the 
roll of the Atlantic with a rope of sand. Nothing 
on earth can cure the inertia of Ireland. It weighs 
dowm like the weeping clouds on the damp heavy 
earth, and there ’s no lifting it, nor disburthening 
of the souls of men of this intolerable weight. I 
was met on every side with a stare of curiosity, 
as if I were propounding something immoral or 
heretical. People looked at me, put their hands 
in their pockets, whistled dubiously, and went 
slowly away. Oh, it was weary, weary work ! The 
blood was stagnant in the veins of the people and 
their feet were shod with lead. They walked 
slowly, spoke with difficulty, stared all day at 
leaden clouds or pale sunlight, stood at the cor- 
ners of the village for hours looking into vacuity, 
and the dear little children became old the mo- 
ment they left school, and lost the smiles and the 


20 


My New Curate 

sunlight of childhood. It was a land of the lotos. 
The people were narcotized. Was it the sea air? 
I think I read somewhere in an old philosopher, 
called Berkeley, that the damp salt air of the sea 
has a curious phlegmatic effect on the blood, and 
will coagulate it and produce gout and sundry dis- 
orders. However that be, there was a weary weight 
on everything around Kilronan. The cattle slept 
in the fields, the fishermen slept in their coracles. 
It was a land of sleep and dreams. 

I approached the agent about a foreshore for the 
pier, for you cannot, in Ireland, take the most pre- 
liminary and initial step in anything without going, 
cap in hand, to the agent. I explained my inten- 
tions. He smiled, but was polite. 

“ Lord L , you know, is either in Monte 

Carlo or yachting in the Levant. He must be 
consulted. I can do nothing.” 

“And when will his Lordship return?” 

“ Probably in two years.” 

“You have no power to grant a lease of the fore- 
shore, or even give temporary permission to erect 
a pier? ” 

“ None whatever.” 

I went to the Presentment Sessions about a grant 
for paving or flagging the wretched street. I woke 
a nest of hornets. 

“ What ! More taxation ! Are n’t the people 
crushed enough already? Where can we get 
money to meet rates and taxes? Flagging Kil- 


A Retrospect 2 1 

ronan ! Oh, of course ! Would n’t your reverence 
go in for gas or the electric light? Begor, ye ’ll be 
wanting a water supply next,” etc., etc. 

I applied to a factory a few miles distant to es- 
tablish a local industry by cottage labor, which is 
cheap and remunerative. 

“ They would be delighted, but — ” And so all 
my castles came tumbling down from the clouds, 
and left them black and lowering and leaden as 
before. Once or twice, later on, I made a few 
spasmodic efforts to galvanize the place into life ; 
they, too, failed, and I accepted the inevitable. 
When Father Laverty came he helped me to bear 
the situation with philosophical calmness. He had 
seen the world, and had been rubbed badly in con- 
tact with it. He had adopted as his motto and 
watchword the fatal Cui bo no ? And he had 
printed in large Gothic letters over his mantelpiece 
the legend : 

TWILL BE ALL THE SAME IN A HUNDRED YEARS. 

And so I drifted, drifted down from high empy- 
reans of great ideals and lofty speculations into a 
humdrum life, that was only saved from sordidness 
by the sacred duties of my office. After all, I find 
that we are not independent of our circumstances. 
We are fashioned and moulded by them as plaster 
of Paris is fashioned and moulded into angels or 
gargoyles by the deft hand of the sculptor. “ Thou 
shalt lower to his level,” true of the wife in Locksley 


22 My New Curate 

Hall, is true of all who are thrown by fate or fortune 
into unhappy environments. In my leisure mo- 
ments, when I took up my pen to write, some evil 
spirit whispered, Cui bono ? and I laid down my 
pen and hid my manuscript. Once or twice I took 
up some old Greek poets and essayed to translate 
them. I have kept the paper still, frayed and 
yellow with age ; but the fatal Cui bono f dis- 
heartened me, and I flung it aside. Even my love 
for the sea had vanished, and I had begun to hate 
it. During the first few years of my ministry I 
spent hours by the cliffs and shores, or out on the 
heaving waters. Then the loneliness of the desert 
and barren wastes repelled me, and I had begun to 
loathe it. Altogether I was soured and discon- 
tented, and I had a dread consciousness that my 
life was a failure. All its possibilities had passed 
without being seized and utilized. I was the barren 
fig tree, fit only to be cut down. May I escape 
the fire ! Such were my surroundings and dispo- 
sition when Father Letheby came. 


CHAPTER III 


A NIGHT CALL 

It must have been about two o’clock on Sunday- 
morning, when the house bell was pulled violently 
and a rapid series of fierce, sharp knocks woke up 
the house. What priest does not know that tocsin 
of the night, and the start from peaceful slumbers? 
I heard the housekeeper wake up Father Letheby; 
and in a short time I heard him go down stairs. 
Then there was the usual hurried colloquy at the 
hall door, then the retreating noises of galloping 
feet. I pulled the blankets around my shoulders, 
lifted the pillow, and said, “ Poor fellow ! ” He 
had to say last Mass next day, and this was some 
consolation, as he could sleep a few hours in the 
morning. I met him at breakfast about half past 
one o’clock. There he was, clean, cool, cheerful, 
as if nothing had happened. 

“ I was sorry you had that night call,” I said ; 

how far had you to go? ” 

“To some place called Knocktorisha,” he re- 
plied, opening his egg; “’twas a little remote, 
but I was well repaid.” 

“Indeed,” said I; “the poor people are very 
grateful. And they generally pay for whatever 
.trouble they give.” 


24 My New Curate 

He flushed up. 

“ Oh, I did n’t mean any pecuniary recom- 
pense,” he said, a little nettled. “ I meant that 
I was repaid by the extraordinary faith and fervor 
of the people.” 

I waited. 

“ Why, Father,” said he, turning around and 
flicking a few invisible crumbs with his napkin, “ I 
never saw anything like it. I had quite an escort 
of cavalry, two horsemen, who rode side by side 
with me the whole way to the mountain, and then, 
when we had to dismount and climb up through 
the boulders of some dry torrent course, I had two 
linkmen or torchbearers, leaping on the crest of 
the ditch on either side, and lighting me right up 
to the door of the cabin. It was a picture that 
Rembrandt might have painted.” 

He paused and blushed a little, as if he had 
been pedantic. 

“ But tell me, Father,” said he, “ is this the 
custom in the country?” 

“ Oh yes,” said I ; “we look upon it as a mat- 
ter of course. Your predecessors did n’t make 
much of it.” 

“ It seems to me,” he said, “ infinitely pictu- 
resque and beautiful. It must have been some 
tradition of the Church when she was free to 
practise her ceremonies. But where do they get 
these torches? ” 

“Bog-oak, steeped in petroleum,” I said. “It 


A Night Call 25 

is, now that you recall it, very beautiful and pictu- 
resque. Our people will never allow a priest, 
with the Blessed Sacrament with him, to go 
unescorted.” 

“ Now that you have mentioned it,” he said, “ I 
distinctly recall the custom that existed among the 
poor of Salford. They would insist always on ac- 
companying me home from a night sick-call. I 
thought it was superfluous politeness, and often 
insisted on being alone, particularly as the streets 
were always well lighted. But no. If the men 
hesitated, the women insisted ; and I had always 
an escort to my door. But this little mountain 
ceremony here is very touching.” 

“ Who was sick? ” 

“ Old Conroy, — a mountain ranger, I believe. 
He is very poorly; and I anointed him.” “By 
Jove,” said he after a pause, “ how he did pray, — 
and all in Irish. I could imagine the old Hebrew 
prophets talking to God from their mountains just 
in that manner. But why do they expect to be 
anointed on the breast?” 

“ I do not know,” T replied, “ I think it is a 
Gallican custom introduced by the French refugee 
priests at the beginning of the century. The 
people invariably expect it.” 

“ But you don’t? ” he asked in surprise. 

“ Oh dear, no. It would be hardly orthodox. 
Come, and if you are not too tired, we ’ll have a 
walk.” 


26 My New Curate 

I took him through the village, where he met 
salaams and genuflections enough ; and was stared 
at by the men, and blessed by the women, and 
received the mute adoration of the children. We 
passed along the bog road, where on either side 
were heaps of black turf drying, and off the road 
were deep pools of black water, filling the holes 
whence the turf was cut. It was lonely; for to- 
day we had not even the pale sunshine to light up 
the gloomy landscape, and to the east the bleak 
mountains stood, clear-cut and uniform in shaggi- 
ness and savagery, against the cold, gray sky. 
The white balls of the bog cotton waved dismally 
in the light breeze, which curled the surface of a 
few pools, and drew a curlew or plover from his 
retreat, and sent him whistling dolefully, and beat- 
ing the heavy air, as he swept towards mountain 
or lake. After half an hour’s walking, painful to 
me, the ground gently rose, and down in the hol- 
low a nest of poplars hid from the western gales. 
I took Father Letheby through a secret path in 
the plantation. We rested a little while, and 
talked of many things. Then we followed a tiny 
path, strewn with withered pine needles, and 
which cut upward through the hill. We passed 
from the shelter of the trees, and stood on the 
brow of a high declivity. I never saw such sur- 
prise in a human face before, and such delight. 
Like summer clouds sweeping over, and dappling 
a meadow, sensations of wonder and ecstasy rolled 


A Night Call 27 

visibly across his fine mobile features. Then, he 
turned, and said, as if not quite sure of himself: — 

“ Why! 'tis the sea! ” 

So it was. God’s own sea, and his retreat, where 
men come but seldom, and then at their peril. 
There the great ball-room of the winds and spirits 
stretched before us, to-day as smooth as if waxed 
and polished, and it was tessellated with bands of 
blue and green and purple, at the far horizon line, 
where, down through a deep mine shaft in the 
clouds, the hidden sun was making a silent glory. 
It was a dead sea, if you will. No .gleam of sail, 
near or afar, lit up its loneliness. No flash of sea 
bird, poised for its prey, or beating slowly over 
the desolate waste, broke the heavy dulness that 
lay upon the breast of the deep. The sky stooped 
down and blackened the still waters ; and anear, 
beneath the cliff on which we were standing, a 
faint fringe of foam alone was proof that the sea 
still lived, though its face was rigid and its voice 
was stilled, as of the dead. 

Father Letheby continued gazing in silence 
over the solemn scene for some time. Then 
lifting his hat he said aloud : — 

“ Mirabiles elationes maris ; 

Mirabilis in altis Dominus ! ” 

“ Not very many ‘ upliftings ’ to-day,” I replied. 
“ You see our great friend at a disadvantage. But 
you know she has moods : and you will like her.” 


28 My New Curate 

“ Like her ! ” he replied. “ It is not liking. It 
is worship. Some kind of Pantheism which I can- 
not explain. Nowhere are the loneliness and gran- 
deur of God so manifested. Mind, I don't quite 
sympathize with that comparison of St. Augus- 
tine’s where he detects a resemblance between yon 
spectra of purple and green and the plumage of a 
dove. What has a dove to do with such magnifi- 
cence and grandeur? It was an anti-climax, a 
bathos, of which St. Augustine is seldom guilty. 

‘ And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of 
the waters.’ There ’s the sublime ! ” 

“ It is desolate,” said I. “ Not even a seamew 
or a gull.” 

“ Quite so,” he replied. “ It is limitless and un- 
conditioned. There is its grandeur. If that sea 
were ploughed by navies, or disfigured by the 
hideous black hulks of men-of-war, it would lose 
its magnificence. It would become a poor limited 
thing, with pygmies sporting on its bosom. It is 
now unlimited, free, unconditioned, as space. It 
is the infinite and the eternal in it that appeals to 
us. When we were children, the infinite lay be- 
yond the next mountain, because it was the un- 
known. We grew up and we got knowledge; 
and knowledge destroyed our dreams, and left us 
only the commonplace. It is the unknown and 
unlimited that still appeals to us, — the something 
behind the dawn, and beyond the sunset, and far 
away athwart the black line of that horizon, that is 


A Night Call 29 

forever calling, calling, and beckoning to us to go 
thither. Now, there is something in that sombre 
glory that speaks to 'you and me. It will disap- 
pear immediately ; and we will feel sad. What is 
it? Voiceless echoes of light from the light that 
streams from the Lamb? ” 

“ I hope,” I said demurely, for I began to fear 
this young enthusiast, “ that you don’t preach in 
that tone to the people ! ” 

“ Oh dear, no,” he said, with a little laugh, 
“but you must forgive my nonsense. You gave 
me such a shock of surprise.” 

“But,” he said, after a pause, “how happy your 
life must have been here ! I always felt in Man- 
chester that I was living at the bottom of a black 
chimney, in smoke and noise and fetor, material 
and spiritual. Here, you have your holy people, 
and the silence and quiet of God. How happy 
you must have been ! ” 

“ What would you think if we returned,” I said. 
“ It ’s almost our dinner hour,” 

It was not so late, however, but that I was 
able to take a ten minutes’ stroll through the 
village, and bid “ good day ” to some of my 
parishioners. 

I suppose there was a note of interrogation hid- 
den away somewhere under my greeting, for I was 
told in different tones and degrees of enthusi- 
asm : — 

“Yerra, your reverence, he ’s a nate man.” 


30 My New Curate 

“ Yerra, we never saw his likes before.” 

“ He spakes almost as plain and common as 
yourself.” 

“They say, your reverence, that he ’s the son of 
a jook.” 

Some old cronies, who retained a lingering 
gratitude for Father Laverty’s snuff, diluted their 
enthusiasm a little. 

“ He is, indeed, a rale nice man. But God be 
with poor Father Tom wherever he is. Sure ’twas 
he was kind to the poor.” 

There was a deputation of young men waiting 
at my house. I have been pestered from deputa- 
tions and speeches since the Land League. A 
shaggy giant stepped forward and said : — * 

“ We have preshumed, your reverence, to call 
upon you to ascertain whether you ’d be agree- 
able to our what I may call unanimous intin- 
sion of asking the new cojutor to be prisident of 
the Gaelic association of Kilronan, called the 
‘Holy Terrors.’” 

I said I was agreeable to anything they wished : 
and Father Letheby became president of the 
“ Holy Terrors.” 

After dinner something put me into better 
humor. I suppose it was the mountain mutton, 
for there’s nothing like it in Ireland, — mutton 
raised on limestone land, where the grass is as 
tender to the lips of the sheep, as the sheep to the 
lips of men. I thought I had an excellent oppor- 


A Night Call 31 

tunity of eliciting my curate’s proficiency in his 
classics. With a certain amount of timidity, for 
you never know when you are treading on a vol- 
cano with these young men, I drew the subject 
around. I have a way of talking enigmatically, 
which never fails, however, to reveal my meaning. 
And after a few clever passes, I said, demurely, 
drawing out my faded and yellow translation, 
made nearly thirty years ago : — 

“ I was once interested in other things. Here is 
a little weak translation I once made of a piece of 
Greek poetry, with which you are quite familiar. 
Ah me ! I had great notions at the time, ideas of 
corresponding with classical journals, and perhaps, 
sooner or later, of editing a classic myself. But 
Cui bono? paralyzed everything. That fatal Cui 
bono? that is the motto and watchword of every 
thinking and unthinking man in Ireland. How- 
ever, now that you have come, perhaps — who 
knows ? What do you think of this ? ” 

I read solemnly: — 

“ I have argued and asked in my sorrow 

What shall please me ? what manner of life ? 

At home am I burdened with cares that borrow 
Their color from a world of strife. 

The fields are burdened with toil, 

The seas are sown with the dead, 

With never a hand of a priest to assoil 
A soul that in sin hath fled. 

I have gold : I dread the danger by night; 

I have none: I repine and fret; 


32 


My New Curate 

I have children : they darken the pale sunlight ; 

I have none : I ’m in nature’s debt. 

The young lack wisdom ; the old lack life ; 

I have brains ; but I shake at the knees ; 

- Alas ! who could covet a scene of strife ? 

Give me peace in this life’s surcease ! ” 

“ What do you think of this? It is a loose trans- 
lation from Posidippus.” 

“It swings well/’ said Father Letheby. “But 
who was he? ” 

“ One of the gnomic, or sententious poets,” I 
replied. 

“ Greek or Latin? ” he asked. 

Then I succumbed. 

“You never heard his name before? ” I said. 

“ Never,” said he emphatically. 

I paused and reflected. 

“ The Bishop told me,” said I, “ that you were 
a great Greek scholar, and took a medal in Greek 
composition? ” 

“ The Bishop told me,” said he, “ that you 
were the best Greek scholar in Ireland, with 
the exception, perhaps, of a Jesuit Father in 
Dublin.” 

We looked at each other. Then burst simul- 
taneously into a fit of laughter, the likes of which 
had not been heard in that room for many a 
day. 

“ I am not sure,” said I, “ about his Lordship’s 
classical attainments ; but he knows human nature 
well.” 


A Night Call 33 

Father Letheby left next morning to see after 
his furniture. He had taken a slated, one-storied 
cottage in the heart of the village. It was humble 
enough ; but it looked quite aristocratic amongst 
its ragged neighbors. 


3 


CHAPTER IV 


THE PANTECHNICON 

The usual deadly silence of a country village in 
Ireland, which is never broken but by the squeal 
of a pig, or the clucking of chickens, or a high 
voice, heard occasionally in anger, was rudely 
shocked on the following Thursday evening. The 
unusual commotion commenced with a stampede 
of sans-culottish boys, and red-legged, wild-eyed 
girls, who burst into the village streets with 
shouts of 

“ Rah ! rah ! the circus ! the circus ! the wild 
baste show ! Rah ! rah ! ” 

In an instant every door frame was filled with a 
living picture. Women of all shapes, and in all 
manners of habille and dishabille , leaned over the 
cross-doors and gazed curiously at the coming 
show. The men, too phlegmatic even in their 
curiosity, simply shifted the pipe from one side of 
the mouth to the other; and, as the object of all 
this curiosity lumbered into the street, three loaf- 
ers, who supported a blank wall opposite my door, 
steered round as slowly as a vessel swings with the 
tide, and leaned the right shoulder, instead of 
the left, against the gable. It was a tremendous 


The Pantechnicon 35 

expenditure of energy; and I am quite sure it 
demanded a drink. And I, feeling from these 
indications that something unusual was at hand, 
drew back my window curtains, and stared deco- 
rously at the passing wonder. It was a long van, 
drawn by two horses, which sweated and panted 
under the whip of their driver. It was painted a 
dark green ; and in gold letters that glittered on 
the green, I read the magic legend : — 

PANTECHNICON. 

“ Pan ” is Greek for “ all,” thought I ; and 
“ technicon ” is appertaining to art. It means 
an exhibition of all the arts; that is, a Gypsy 
wagon with bric-a-brac, or one of these peep- 
shows, which exhibits to admiring youngsters Na- 
poleon crossing the Alps, or Marius sitting on the 
ruins of Carthage. I let the curtain fall, and went 
back to my books ; but in a moment I heard the 
caravan stopping just a few doors below, and I 
heard my bedroom window raised; and I knew 
that Hannah was half way between heaven and 
earth. I have not a particle of curiosity in my 
composition, but I drew back the curtain again, 
and looked down the street. The van had stopped 
at Father Letheby’s new house, and a vast crowd 
surged around it. The girls kept at a respectful 
distance, whilst the men unyoked their horses; 
but the boys stood near, in the attitude of runners 
at a tournament, ready to make off the moment 


36 My New Curate 

the first ominous growl was heard. The adults 
were less excited, though quite as curious, and I 
could hear the questionings over the silence of ex- 
pectation that had fallen on the village. 

“ Yerra, what is it? ” 

“How do I know? It’s the place where the 
circus people live.” 

“ O — yeh ! what a quare place to live in ? And 
where do they sleep ? ” 

“ In the wagon.” 

“An’ ate?” 

“ In the wagon.” 

“ Yerra, they ’re not Christians at all, at all.” 

Then the men slowly opened the door of the 
wagon, and took out, from a mass of canvas and 
straw, a dainty satin-covered chair. A tidy, well 
dressed servant, with a lace cap perched on the 
top of her head, and what the village folk called 
“sthramers” flying behind, came out of Father 
Letheby’s cottage, and helped to take the furni- 
ture within. As each pretty article appeared, 
there was a chorus of “ oh-h-hs ” from the chil- 
dren. But the climax of delight was reached when 
a gilt mirror appeared. Then for the first time 
sundry boys and girls saw their own dear smutty 
faces; and huge was their delight. But I am 
wrong. The climax , came when the heaviest arti- 
cle appeared. Great was the curiosity. 

“ What is it? what is it?” “A bed?” “No.” 
“A dresser? ” 

“ No.” 


“No.” “A thing for books?” 


The Pantechnicon 37 

But one enlightened individual, who had been 
up to the great house at a spring cleaning, as- 
tonished the natives by declaring that it was a 
piano. 

“ A pianney? Yeh, for what? A priest with a 
pianney ! Yerra, his niece is going to live wid him. 
Yerra, no ! He ’ll play it himself.” 

Which last interpretation was received with 
shouts of incredulous laughter. What a versatile 
people we are ! And how adoration and laughter, 
and reverence and sarcasm, move side by side in 
our character, apparently on good terms with each 
other. Will the time come when the laughter and 
the wit, grown rampant, will rudely jostle aside all 
the reverential elements in our nature, and mount 
upwards to those fatal heights which other nations 
have scaled like Satan, — and thence have been 
flung into the abyss? 

I was curious to know what Hannah thought 
of it all. Hannah too is versatile ; and leaps 
from adoration to envy with wonderful facility. 

“ Father Letheby’s furniture, I suppose? ” I said, 
when she brought in the dinner. 

“ I believe so,” she replied, in a tone of ineffable 
scorn, — “a parcel of gimcracks and kimmeens.” 

“ I thought they looked nice from here, ” I 
said. 

“ Don’t sit on his chairs, unless you have your 
will made,” she said. 

“ Did I see a looking-glass? ” I asked. 


38 My New Curate 

“ Oh yes ! to curl his hair, I suppose. And a 
pianney to play polkas.” 

“ It is n’t as solid as ours, Hannah,” I said. This 
opened the flood-gates of wrath. 

“ No,” she said, in that accent of sarcasm in 
which an Irish peasant is past master, “ nor 
purtier. Look at that sophy now. Is n’t it fit 
for any lady in the land? And these chairs? 
Only for the smith, they ’d be gone to pieces long 
ago. And that lovely carpet? ’T would do for 
a flag for the Hague.’ You have n’t one cup and 
saucer that is n’t cracked, nor a plate that is n’t 
burnt, nor a napkin, nor a tablecloth, nor a salt- 
cellar, nor — nor a — nor a — ” 

“ I ’ll tell you what, Hannah,” I said. “ Father 
Letheby is going to show us what ’s what. I ’ll 
furnish the whole house from top to bottom. 
Was that his housekeeper?” 

“ I suppose so,” she said contemptuously. 
“ Some poor girl from an orphanage. If she 
was n’t, she would n’t wear them curifixes.” 

I admit that Hannah’s scorn for my scanty be- 
longings was well bestowed. The sofa, which 
appeared to affect her aesthetic sense most keenly, 
was certainly a dilapidated article. Having but 
three legs, it leaned in a loafing way against the 
wall, and its rags of horsehair and protruding 
springs gave it a most trampish and disreputable 
appearance. The chairs were solid, for the smith 
had bound them in iron clamps. And the carpet? 


The Pantechnicon 39 

— Well, I pitied it. It was threadbare and trans- 
parent. Yet, when I looked around, I felt no fem- 
inine scorn. They all appealed to me and said : — 
“ We have been forty years in your service. 
We have seen good things and evil things. Our 
faces are familiar to you. We have spent our- 
selves in your service.” 

And I vowed that, even under the coming exigen- 
cies, when I should have to put on an appearance 
of grace and dignity, — exigencies which I clearly 
foresaw the moment my curate made his appear- 
ance, these old veterans should never be set aside 
or cast as lumber, when their aristocratic friends 
would make their appearance. And my books 
looked at me as much as to say : — 

“ You ’re not ashamed of us? ” 

No, dear silent friends, I should be the meanest, 
most ungrateful of mortals if I could be ashamed 
of you. For forty years you have been my com- 
panions in solitude ; to you I owe whatever 
inspirations I have ever felt; from you have de- 
scended in copious streams the ideas that raised 
my poor life above the commonplace, and the sen- 
timents that have animated every good thing and 
every holy purpose that I have accomplished. 
Friends that never obtruded on my loneliness by 
idle chatter and gossip, but always spoke wise, in- 
spiriting things when most I needed them ; friends 
that never replied in irritation to my own disturbed 
imaginings, but always uttered your calm wisdom 


40 My New Curate 

like voices from eternity, to soothe, to control, or to 
elevate ; friends that never tired and never com- 
plained ; that went back to your recesses without a 
murmur; and never resented by stubborn silence 
my neglect, — treasures of thought and fountains of 
inspiration, you are the last things on earth on which 
my eyes shall rest in love, and like the orphans of 
my flock your future shall be my care. True, like 
your authors, you look sometimes disreputable 
enough. Your clothes, more to my shame, hang 
loose and tattered around you, and some of your 
faces are ink-stained or thumb-worn from con- 
tact with the years and my own carelessness. I 
would dress you in purple and fine linen if I may, 
yet you would reproach me and think I was weary 
of your homely faces. Like the beggar-maid 
you would entreat to be allowed to go back from 
queenly glory and pomp to the tatters and con- 
tentment of your years. So shall it be ! but be- 
tween you and me there must be no divorce, so 
long as time shall last for me. Other friends will 
come and go, but nothing shall disolve our union 
based upon gratitude and such love as man’s heart 
may have for the ideal and insensible. 

When there had been time for perfecting all his 
arrangements, I strolled down to pay a formal 
visit to Father Letheby. The atmosphere of 
absolute primness and neatness struck my senses 
when I entered. Waxed floors, dainty rugs, shin- 
ing brasses, coquettish little mirrors here and 


The Pantechnicon 41 

there, a choice selection of daintily bound vol- 
umes, and on a writing desk a large pile of virgin 
manuscript, spoke the scholar and the gentleman. 
My heart sank, as I thought how sick of all this he 
will be in a few weeks, when the days draw in, 
and the skies scowl, and the windows are washed, 
and the house rocked under the fierce sou’westers 
that sweep up the floor of the Atlantic, and throw 
all its dripping deluges on the little hamlet of 
Kilronan. But I said : — 

“ You have made a cosey little nest for yourself, 
Father Letheby; may you long enjoy it.” 

“ Yes,” he said, as if answering my horrible scep- 
ticism, “ God has been very good to send me here.” 

Now what can you do with an optimist like that? 

“ There is just one drawback,” I said, with a faint 
attempt at humor, “ to all this aestheticism.” I 
pointed to a window against which four very dirty 
noses were flattened, and four pairs of delighted 
eyes were wandering over this fairy-land, and a 
dirty finger occasionally pointed out some particu- 
larly attractive object. 

‘‘Poor little things,” he said, “ it gives them 
pleasure, and does me no harm.” 

“ Then, why not bring them in? ” I said. 

“ Oh, no,” he replied, with a little laugh, “ I 
draw the line there.” He pointed to the shining 
waxed floors. “ Besides, it would destroy their 
heaven. To touch and handle the ideal, brings it 
toppling down about our ears.” 


42 My New Curate 

We spoke long and earnestly about a lot of 
things. Then, looking a little nervously at me, he 
made a great leap of thought. 

“ Would you mind my saying a serious word to 
you, sir? ” said he. 

“ Certainly not,” I replied, “ go ahead.” 

“ It seems to me, then,” he said, deliberately, 
“ that we are not making all that we might out of 
the magnificent possibilities that lie at our disposal. 
There is no doubt things are pretty backward in 
Ireland. Yet, we have an intelligent people, splen- 
did natural advantages, — an infernally bad govern- 
ment, it is true, — but can we not share the blame 
with the government in allowing things to remain 
as they are? Now, I am not an advocate for great 
political designs : I go in for decentralization, by 
which I mean that each of us should do his very 
best exactly in that place where Providence has 
placed him. To be precise, what is there to pre- 
vent us from improving the material condition of 
these poor people? There is a pier to be built. 
I am told shoals of fish whiten the sea in the 
summer, and there are no appliances to help our 
fishermen to catch them and sell them at a vast 
profit. There is an old mill lying idle down near 
the creek. Why not furnish it up, and get work 
for our young girls there? We have but a poor 
water supply; and, I am told, there is a periodical 
recurrence of fever. Pardon me, sir,” he continued, 
“ if I seem to be finding fault with the ministry of 


The Pantechnicon 43 

the priests here, but I am sure you do not mis- 
understand me? ” 

“ Certainly not,” said I, “ go on.” 

And he went on with his airy optimism, drawing 
wonderful castles with the light pencils of his 
young fancy, and I seemed to hear my own voice 
echoing back from thirty years long passed by, 
when the very same words were on my lips and 
the same ideas throbbed through my brain. But 
would it be kind to leave him undeceived ? I de- 
cided not. 

“ Your first step,” I said, “ is to see the landlord, 
who owns the sloping fields and the foreshore.” 

“ Certainly,” he said, “ that ’s quite easy. 
What’s his address?” He took up his note- 
book. 

“ I am not quite sure,” I replied. “ He is prob- 
ably this moment staking half his property on the 
red at Monte Carlo, or trying to peep into a harem 
at Stamboul, or dining off bison steak in some 
canon in the Sierras.” 

He looked shocked. 

“ But his agent, — his representative? ” 

“ Oh ! he ’s quite available. He will be very 
polite, and tell you in well chosen words that he 
can do — nothing.” 

“But the Governmental Office, — the Board of 
Works?” 

“ Quite so. You ’ll write a polite letter. It will 
be answered in four weeks to the day : ‘ We beg 


44 My New Curate 

to acknowledge receipt of your communication, 
which shall have our earliest attention.’ You’ll 
write again. Reply in four weeks: * We beg to 
acknowledge receipt of your communication, which 
we have placed before the Board.’ You’ll hear 
no more on the matter. But don’t let me depress 
you ! ” 

“ But is there no redress? What about Parlia- 
ment? ” 

“ Oh, to be sure ! A question will be asked in 
the House of Commons. The Chief Secretary 
will reply : ‘ The matter is under the deliberation 
of the Board of Works, with whose counsels we do 
not wish to interfere.’ ” 

He was silent. 

“ About the factory,” I continued. “You know 
there is a large shirt factory in Loughboro, six 
miles away. If you apply to have a branch factory 
established here, the manager will come down, 
look at the store, turn up his nose, ask you where 
are you to find funds to put the building in proper 
order, and do you propose to make the store also 
a fish-curing establishment ; and then he will prob- 
ably write* what a high-born lady said of the first 
Napoleon : ‘ II salissait tout ce qu’il touchait.’ ” 

“It’s a damned lie,” said Father Letheby, 
springing up, and, I regret to say, demolishing 
sundry little Japanese gimcracks, “ our people are 
the cleanest, purest, sweetest people in the world 
in their own personal habits, whatever be said of 


The Pantechnicon 45 

their wretched cabins. But you are not serious, 
sir? ” 

He bent his glowing eyes upon me. I liked his 
anger. And I liked very much that explosive 
expletive. How often, during my ministry, did I 
yearn to be able to utter that emphatic word ! 
Mind, it is not a cuss-word. It is only an inno- 
cent adjective — condemned. But what eloquence 
and emphasis there is in it ! How often I could 
have flung it at the head of a confirmed toper, as 
he knelt at my feet to take the pledge. How 
often I could have shot it at the virago, who was 
disturbing the peace of the village ; and on whom 
my vituperation, which fell like a shot without 
powder, made no impression ! It sounded honest. 
I like a good fit of anger, honest anger, and such 
a gleam of lightning through it. 

“I am/’ I said, “quite serious. You want to 
create a Utopia. You forget your Greek.” 

He smiled. 

“ I am reserving the worst,” I said. 

“What is it?” he cried. “Let me know the 
worst.” 

“ Well,” I said slowly, “ the people won’t thank 
you even in the impossible hypothesis that you 
succeed.” 

He looked incredulous. 

“ What ! that they won’t be glad to lift them- 
selves from all this squalor and misery, and be 
raised into a newer and sweeter life ? ” 


46 My New Curate 

“ Precisely. They are happy. Leave them so. 
They have not the higher pleasures. Neither 
have they the higher perils. ‘ They sow not, 
neither do they spin.’ But neither do they envy 
Solomon in all his glory. Jack Haslem and Dave 
Olden sleep all day in their coracles. They put 
down their lobster pots at night. Next day, they 
have caught enough of these ugly brutes to pay 
for a glorious drunk. Then sleep again. How 
can you add to such happiness? By building a 
schooner, and sending them out on the high seas, 
exposed to all the dangers of the deep ; and they 
have to face hunger and cold and death, for what? 
A little more money, and a little more drink ; and 
your sentence: Why didn’t he leave us alone? 
Weren’t we just as well off as we were? which is 
the everlasting song of your respected predecessor, 
only he put it in Latin : Cui bono ? ” 

He pondered deeply for a long time. Then he 
said : “ It sounds sensible ; but there is some vile 
fallacy at the bottom of it. Anyhow, I ’ll try. 
Father, give me your blessing ! ” 

“ There again,” I said, “ see how innocent you 
are. You don’t know the vernacular.” 

He looked surprised. 

“ When you know us better,” I answered, in 
reply to his looks, “ you will understand that 
by that formula you ask for a drink. And as 
I don’t happen to be under my own roof just 
now — ” 


The Pantechnicon 47 

His glorious laugh stopped me. It was like the 
ringing of a peal of bells. 

“ No matter,” he said. “ I may go on? ” 

“ Certainly,” I replied. “ You ’ll have a few 
gray hairs in your raven locks in twelve months 
time, — that ’s all.” 

“ What a hare,” I thought as I went home, “ is 
madness, the youth, to leap over the meshes of 
good counsel, the cripple.” Which is not mine, 
but that philosopher, Will Shakespeare; or is it 
Francis Bacon? 


CHAPTER V 


A SLIGHT MISUNDERSTANDING 

Father Letheby commenced sooner than I had 
expected. 

I think it was about nine or ten days after his 
formal instalment in his new house, just as I was 
reading after breakfast the Freeman's Journal of 
two days past, the door of my parlor was suddenly 
flung open, a bunch of keys was thrown angrily 
on the table, and a voice (which I recognized as 
that of Mrs. Darcy, the chapel woman), strained 
to the highest tension of indignation, shouted : — 

“ There ! and may there be no child to pray 
over my grave if ever I touch them again ! 
Wisha! where in the world did you get him? or 
where did he come from, at all, at all? The son of 
a jook ! the son of a draper over there at Kilkeel. 
Did n’t Mrs. Morarty tell me how she sowld socks 
to his ould father? An’ he comes here complain- 
ing of dacent people ! * Dirt,’ sez he. ‘ Where? ’ 

sez I. ‘There,’ sez he. ‘Where? ’ sez I. I came 
of as dacent people as him. Wondher you never 
complained. But you’re too aisy. You always 
allow these galivanters of curates to crow over 
you. But I tell you I won’t stand it. If I had to 
beg my bread from house to house, I won’t stand 


A Slight Misunderstanding 49 

being told I’m dirty. Why, the ladies of the 
Great House said they could see their faces in the 
candlesticks ; and did n’t the Bishop say ’twas the 
natest vestry in the diocese? And this new coju- 



“ My door was suddenly flung open, and a bunch of keys 
was thrown angrily on the table.” 

tor with his gran’ accent, which no one can under- 
stand, and his gran’ furniture, and his whipster of 
a servant, begor, no one can stand him. We 
must all clear out. And, after me eighteen years, 
scrubbing, and washing, and ironing, wid me two 
little orphans, which that blackguard, Jem Darcy 
4 


50 My New Curate 

(the Lord have mercy on his sowl !) left me, must 
go to foreign countries to airn me bread, because 
I ’m not good enough for his reverence. Well, 
’t is you’ll be sorry. But, if you wint down on 
your two binded knees and said : ‘ Mrs. Darcy, I 
deplore, you to take up them kays and go back to 
your juties,’ I would n’t ! No ! Get some whipster 
that will suit his reverence. Mary Darcy is n’t 
good enough.” 

She left the room, only to return. She spoke 
with forced calmness. 

“ De thrifle of money you owe me, yer rever- 
ence, ye can sind it down to the house before I 
start for America. And dere ’s two glasses of althar 
wine in the bottle, and half a pound of candles.” 

She went out again, but returned immediately. 

“ The surplus is over at Nell O’Brien’s washing, 
and the black vestment is over at Tom Carmody’s 
since the last station. The kay of the safe is under 
the door of the linny 1 to de left, and the chalice is 
in the basket, wrapped in the handkercher. And, 
if you don’t mind giving me a charackter, perhaps, 
Hannah will take it down in the evening.” 

She went out again ; but kept her hand on the 
door. 

“ Good by, your reverence, and God bless you ! 
Sure, thin, you never said a hard word to a poor 
woman.” Then there was the sound of falling 
tears. 


Saxon, linhay. 


A Slight Misunderstanding 5 1 

To all this tremendous philippic I never replied. 
I never do reply to a woman until I have my hand 
on the door handle and my finger on the key. I 
looked steadily at the column of stocks and shares 
on the paper, though I never read a word. 

“ This is rather a bad mess,” said I. “ He is 
coming out too strong.” 

The minute particulars I had from Hannah soon 
after. Hannah and Mrs. Darcy are not friends. 
Two such village potentates could not be friends 
any more than two poets, or two critics, or two 
philosophers. As a rule, Hannah rather looked 
down on the chapel woman, and generally ad- 
dressed her with studied politeness. “ How are 
you to-day, Mrs. Darcy?” or more frequently, 
“ Good morning, Mrs. Darcy.” On the other hand, 
Mary Darcy, as arbitress at stations, wakes, and 
weddings, had a wide influence in the parish, and 
I fear used to speak contemptuously sometimes of 
my housekeeper. But now there was what the 
newspapers call a Dual Alliance against the new- 
comers, and a stern determination that any attempt 
at superiority should be repressed with a firm hand, 
and to Mrs. Darcy’s lot it fell to bear the martyr- 
dom of high principle and to fire the first shot, 
that should be also the final one. And so it was, 
but not in the way Mrs. Darcy anticipated. 

It would appear, then, that Father Letheby had 
visited the sacristy, and taken a most minute in- 
ventory of its treasures, and had, with all the zeal 


52 My New Curate 

of a new reformer, found matters in a very bad 
state. Now, he was not one to smile benignantly 
at such irregularities and then throw the burden 
of correcting them on his pastor. He was out- 
spoken and honest. He tore open drawers, and 
drew out their slimy, mildewed contents, sniffed 
ominously at the stuffy atmosphere, flung aside 
with gestures of contempt some of Mrs. Darcy’s 
dearest treasures, such as a magnificent reredos 
of blue paper with gold stars ; held up gingerly, 
and with curled lip, corporals and purificators, 
and wound up the awful inspection with the 
sentence : — 

“ I never saw such abominable filth in my life.” 

Now, you may accuse us in Ireland of anything 
you please from coining to parricide, but if you 
don’t want to see blazing eyes and hear vigorous 
language don’t say, Dirt. Mrs. Darcy bore the 
fierce scrutiny of her menage without shrinking, 
but when he mentioned the ugly word, all her fury 
shot forth, and it was all the more terrible, because 
veiled under a show of studied politeness. 

“ Dirt ! ” she said. “ I’d be plazed to see your 
reverence show one speck of dirt in the place.” 

“ Good heavens, woman ! ” he said, “ what do 
you mean? There is dirt everywhere, in the air, 
under my feet, in the grate, on the altar. It would 
take the Atlantic to purify the place.” 

“You ’re the first gentleman that ever complained 
of the place,” said Mrs. Darcy. “ Of coorse, there 


A Slight Misunderstanding 53 

are n’t carpets, and be^tfeikins, and cowhides, which 
are now the fashion, I believe. An’ dere is n’t a 
looking-glass, nor a pianney; but would your rev- 
erence again show me the dirt. A poor woman’s 
charackter is all she has.” 

“ I did n’t mean to impute anything to your 
character,” he said, mildly, “ but if you can’t see 
that this place is frightfully dirty, I suppose I 
can’t prove it. Look at that ! ” 

He pointed to a grewsome heap of cinders, half- 
burnt papers, brown ashes, etc., that choked up 
the grate. 

“Yerra. Glory be to God!” said Mrs. Darcy, 
appealing to an imaginary audience, “ he calls the 
sweepings of the altar, and the clane ashes, dirt. 
Yerra, what next?” 

“This next,” he said, determinedly; “come 
here.” He took her out and pointed to the 
altar cloth. It was wrinkled and grimy, God for- 
give me ! and there were stars of all sizes and 
colors darkening it. 

“Isn’t that a disgrace to the Church?” he said, 
sternly. 

“ I see no disgrace in it,” said Mrs. Darcy. “ It 
was washed and made up last Christmas, and is 
as clane to-day as the day it came from the 
mangle.” 

“Do you call that clean?” he shouted, pointing 
Ito the drippings of the candles. 

•“ Yerra, what harm is that,” said she, “ a bit of 


54 My New Curate 

blessed wax that fell from the candles? Sure, ’t is 
of that they make the Agnus Deis.” 

“ You ’re perfectly incorrigible,” he said. “I’ll 
report the whole wretched business to the parish 
priest, and let him deal with you.” 



“ Do you call that clean ? ” 

“ Begor you may,” said she, “ but I ’ll have my 
story first.” 

And so she had. Father Letheby gave me his 
version afterwards. He did so with the utmost 
delicacy, for it was all an indirect indictment of 
my own slovenliness and sinful carelessness. I 


A Slight Misunderstanding 55 

listened with shamed face and bent head? And 
determined to let him have his way. I knew that 
Mrs. Darcy would not leave for America just yet. 

But what was my surprise on the following Sun- 
day, when, on entering the sacristy to prepare for 
Mass, I slid along a polished floor, and but for 
the wall would probably have left a vacancy at 
Kilronan to some expectant curate. The floor 
glinted and shone with wax ; and there were dainty 
bits of fibre matting here and there. The grate 
was black-leaded, and there was a wonderful fire- 
screen with an Alpine landscape. The clock was 
clicking steadily, as if Time had not stood still 
for us all for many years : and there were my little 
altar boys in snowy surplices as neat as the aco- 
lytes that proffered soap and water to the Arch- 
bishop of Rheims, when he called for bell and 
book in the famous legend. 

But oh ! my anguish when I drew a stiff white 
amice over my head, instead of the dear old limp 
and wrinkled one I was used to ; and when I 
feebly tried to push my hands through the lace 
meshes of an alb, that would stand with stiffness 
and pride, if I placed it on the floor. I would 
gladly have called for my old garment; but I 
knew that I too had to undergo the process of 
the new reformation; and, with much agony, I 
desisted. But I drew the line at a biretta which 
cut my temples with its angles, and I called 
out: — 


56 My New Curate 

“ Mrs. Darcy.” 

A young woman, with her hair all tidied up, 
and with a white apron, laced at the edges, and 
pinned to her breast, came out from a recess. 
She was smiling bashfully, and appeared as if she 
would like to run away and hide somewhere. 

“ Mrs. Darcy,” I called again. 

The young woman smiled more deeply, and said 
with a kind of smirk : — * 

“ Here I am, your reverence ! ” 

It is fortunate for me that I have acquired, after 
long practice, the virtue of silence; for when I 
recognized the voice of my old friend, I was thun- 
derstruck. I ’m sure I would have said something 
very emphatic, but my habits restrained me. But 
I regret to say it was all a source of distraction to 
me in the celebration of the Divine Mysteries, and 
during the day. What had occurred? I was dying 
to know; but it would not be consistent with the 
dignity of my position to ask. To this day, I con- 
gratulate myself on my reticence ; for, who could 
help asking how? when face to face with a mir- 
acle. It was some days before I discovered the 
secret of the magical transformation. 

It would appear, then, that the late lamented 
Jem Darcy, when he departed to his reward, left 
his poor widow two charges in the shape of chil- 
dren. What do I say? Charges? No. She would' 
scornfully repudiate the word. For was not Pat- 
sey, the baby of eighteen months, “ the apple of 


Here I am, your Reverence ! ” (p. 56.) 


































































































































































A Slight Misunderstanding 57 

her eye,” and Jemmy, the little hunchback of six 
summers, “ the core of her heart ” ? For them she 
labored and toiled, and “ moiled,” as she used to 
say ; and worked herself into oil to get them bread, 
and a pink ribbon for the baby’s shoulder knot, 
and a navy cap, with “ Hero ” in gold letters for 
Jemmy. And across her troubled life, full of cares 
and apprehensions, poor soul ! was there any gleam 
of sunshine, except that which was reflected in the 
iris of her baby’s eyes ; or that which dappled the 
mud floor of her cabin, when Jemmy lay there and 
played hide and seek with the gossamer threads 
that shone through the chink in the half-door ! 
Ah me ! it is easy to lecture the poor, and com- 
plain of their horrid ways ; but the love such as no 
man hath gilds and enamels most of the crooked 
and grimy things that disfigure their poor lives in 
the eyes of the fastidious ; and perhaps makes the 
angels of Him, before whose Face the stars are 
not spotless, turn from the cold perfection of the 
mansion and the castle to gaze lovingly on the 
squalid lowliness of the hamlet and the cabin. 
Well. On the morning that Mrs. Darcy gave me 
formal notice of her relinquishment of the solemn 
office she held, she bent her steps homeward with 
a heavy heart. She had done her duty, like all 
the other great people who have done disagree- 
able things ; but it brought no consolation. And 
she had flung behind her her little cabin, and all 
the sweet associations connected therewith, and 


58 My New Curate 

the pomp and pride of power, when she officiated 
at the public offices of the Church, and every one 
knew her to be indispensable. For who could tell 
the name of a defaulter at the station, but Mrs. 
Darcy? And who arranged the screaming baby 
in the clumsy arms of a young godmother, but 
Mrs. Darcy? And who could lay out a corpse 
like Mrs. Darcy? And who but Mrs. Darcy found 
the ring when the confused and blushing bride- 
groom fumbled in every pocket at the altar, and 
the priest looked angry, and the bride ashamed? 

And then her pride in the Church! How won- 
derful were her designs in holly and ivy at Christ- 
mas ! What fantasies she wove out of a rather 
limited imagination ! What art fancies, that would 
shame William Morris, poet and socialist, did she 
conceive and execute in the month of May for the 
Lady Altar ! Did n’t Miss Campion say that she 
was a genius, but undeveloped? Didn’t Miss 
Campion’s friend from Dublin declare that there 
was nothing like it in Gardiner Street? And when 
her time would be spent, and she was old and 
rheumatized, would not little Jemmy, the hunch- 
back, who was a born pre-Raphaelite, take her 
place, and have a home, for he could not face the 
rough world ? Ah me ! and it was all gone ; cast 
behind her through a righteous feeling of pride and 
duty. She moved through the village with a heavy 
heart ; and her check apron went to her eyes. 

She had an amiable habit of never entering her 


A Slight Misunderstanding 59 

cabin without playing “ Peek-a-boo ! ” through the 
window with the baby. For this purpose, the 
cradle was always drawn so that the baby faced 
the window; and when it saw the round face, 
which it knew so well, peeping over the speck 
blossoms of the mignonette, well — there were 
developments. On this particular morning, Mrs. 
Darcy was in no humor for play acting; but the 
force of habit is strong, and she peered through 
the little window with reddened eyes. And these 
eyes, as she afterwards described it, “ sprod in her 
head” at what she saw. For, on the floor, in 
his favorite attitude, his head propped between his 
hands, was the hunchback, Jemmy, studying with 
all the intense appreciation of an Edison, how to 
construct an airy castle out of certain painted 
wood-blocks, which strewed the floor; and there, 
his back turned towards the window, was her arch- 
enemy, Father Letheby, his right hand raised aloft 
and dangling an india-rubber baby ; whilst Patsey, 
his eyes dilated with excitement, made frantic at- 
tempts to seize the prize, and crowed and chuckled 
in the exuberance of his delight. Mrs. Darcy 
drew back hastily, then peeped again. No doubt 
of it It was no phantasm of the imagination. 
She looked again. Then whispered something 
softly to herself, and, with a great lump in her 
throat, sped swiftly through the village and up to the 
“ Great House.” The result of her interview with 
Miss Campion we have seen. Father Letheby has 


60 My New Curate 

scored again. There were heavy bets of fifteen 
to one in half-gallons of porter, laid by desperate 
gamblers, that Father Letheby would make Mrs. 
Darcy wash her face. It was supposed to be a 
wild plunge in a hopeless speculation. I am told 
now, that the betting has gone up at the forge, 
and is now fifty to one that, before a month, she ’ll 
have a lace cap and “ sthramers ” like the maids 
at the “ Great House.” 


CHAPTER VI 


AT THE STATION 

Captain Campion was one of that singular race 
of Catholics, with which Ireland was familiar fifty 
years ago, but which is now dying rapidly away 
under the new conditions and environments of our 
age. A strong, rough lot they were, with whom a 
word meant a blow; gentlemen every inch of 
them, who would die for the faith whose dogmas 
they knew nothing of, and whose commands they 
ignored. Often in the town and country clubs of 
Ireland strange things happened, of which the 
outer world heard nothing; for stewards are dis- 
creet, and managers imbibe the spirit of respecta- 
bility from their superiors. But the walls could 
tell of wine glasses shattered, and billiard cues 
broken, and hot blows exchanged for a word 
about the Pope, or against the priests; it was a 
leap of hot flame, which died out in a moment, 
and ‘they were gentlemen again. And the per- 
fervid imagination of the Celt had invented some 
such heroism about Captain Campion, — particu- 
larly one brilliant achievement at a hunt, when he 
unhorsed with the butt of his riding whip, and 
then cut and lashed an unfortunate young officer 


62 My New Curate 

in the Lancers, who had dared say something 
about Bittra, — the “lovely Papist,” who was 
toasted at the mess in distant Galway, and had 
set half the hunting men of the country wild 
with her beauty and her prowess. It may be sup- 
posed then that Captain Campion was not a prac- 
tical Catholic. He came to Mass occasionally, 
where he fidgeted in his pew, and twisted and 
writhed under the sermon. He never went to 
Confession; not even to his Easter duty, — which 
prevented me from accepting the hospitalities 
which he freely proffered. There were other little 
circumstances which made me wish not to be too 
intimate. Whatever political opinions I held, and 
they were thin and colorless enough, were in direct 
antagonism to his. He was a three-bottle Tory, 
who regarded the people as so many serfs, who 
provided laborers for his comfort, and paid him 
for the privilege of living on stony mountain or 
barren bog. The idea of their having any rights 
struck him as positively ludicrous. There was but 
one thing that had rights, and that was the fetish, 
property. Every attempt, therefore, to lift the 
people from that condition of serfdom he regarded 
as absolutely treasonable ; and he was my chief 
opponent in any futile attempts I made to intro- 
duce some improvements into the wretched place. 
And of course he was hated. There was hardly a 
family to whom he had not done an injury, for 
he pushed the law to savage extremes. He had 


At the Station 63 

evicted, and burnt down the deserted cottages; 
he had driven honest lads for some paltry act of 
poaching into criminal and dishonest courses ; he 
had harassed the widow and unhoused the orphan ; 
and every prayer that went up for the sweet face 
of his child was weighted with a curse for the sav- 
age and merciless father. He knew it, and did n’t 
care. For there were plenty to fawn upon him 
and tell him he was quite right. Ah me ! how the 
iron has sunk into our souls ! Seven centuries of 
slavery have done their work well. 

Bittra Campion sat in the large drawing-room, 
with the high, broad windows, that looked over a 
dun, brown moorland, to where the sea-line threw 
its clear curve athwart the sky. She was working 
quietly at some little garment for a poor peasant 
girl or half-clad boy in the mountains; but over 
her gentle and usually placid face stole a look of 
apprehension, as if a shadow of coming evil was 
thrown forward by the undefined future. Yet why 
should she fear, who hated no one, but poured her 
love abroad upon all? Ah, why? is it not upon 
the gentle and the kind that the hailstones of des- 
tiny beat oftenest, as if they felt that here, and 
not upon the rugged and the stern, their pitiless 
strength should succeed? From time to time, 
Bittra looked to the door, or paused in her work, 
to listen for a footstep. At last it came, — her 
father’s heavy step, as he strode across the corri- 
dor, and the doors slammed behind him. 


64 My New Curate 

“ All alone, mignonne,” he said. “ A penny, 
nay, a pound for your thoughts.” 

“ Agreed, father,” she said eagerly, “ I want a 
pound rather badly just now.” 

“ Some new idiot discovered in the hills,” he 
said, “ or some disreputable tramp with a good 
imagination. You shall have it, Bittra,” he said, 
coming over, and gently stroking her hair. He 
looked down fondly upon her, and said, suddenly 
changing his voice: — 

“ I am hungry as a hawk, Bittra ; would you 
get me some tea? ” 

She rose to meet his wishes, and as her tall, 
beautiful figure passed from the room, he said to 
himself: — 

“ God, how like her mother ! ” 

He threw himself on a sofa, and looked out over 
the moor. But he saw — 

A long, low island, with the plumes of palms 
crowning the hill ; and beneath, the white waves 
creeping up the coral crests to mingle with the 
lazy waters of the lagoon. A cottage, shaded with 
palms, close down by the beach, with magnolias 
clustering round the windows, and orchids far back 
in the moist shades, and creeping vines tangled in 
and out amongst the palms, and a strong sun, 
going down in an orange and crimson sky, and a 
cool, welcome breeze from the sea, that just lifts 
up the fans of the palms, and a stray curl on the 
forehead of a girl — for she was hardly more than 


At the Station 65 

a girl — who sat out on the tiny lawn, and at her 
feet the young naval officer, who had carried off 
his bride at the last season at the Castle and 
brought her here under southern skies, and be- 
lieved that this was the world — and heaven. His 
ship lay at anchor on the eastern side ; and here 
they were stationed for weeks, it may be for 
months, away from civilization and all its nui- 
sances, and alone with Nature and the children 
of Nature, who came by degrees to love at least 
the gentle lady who was so kind to them and their 
brown babies. Alas for human happiness ! One 
short year, and he was a widower, with the charge 
of a little babe. 

“ It was a bitter fate,” he said to himself, “ and 
I called her ‘ Bittra * in my rage,. I must change 
that name.” 

He started, for the door opened and Bittra came 
in, immediately followed by the servant with tea. 

“ We ’ve got a new neighbor, mignonne,” he 
said, as he broke up his toast, “ and must call 
immediately. Can you guess?” 

“ No, father,” she said ; but it fitted in with her 
apprehensions and made her shudder. 

“ Neither can I,” he said, laughing. “ But I have 
got mysterious hints that indicate a neighbor.” 

“ Judith again,” said Bittra. “ She can never be 
explicit.” 

Then, after a long pause, she said, as if com- 
muning with herself: — 


S 


66 My New Curate 

“ I don’t like new acquaintances. They are 
pretty certain to be troublesome. Can’t we live 
for one another, father? ” 

“ Gladly, my child,” he said, darkly, “ but what 
can you do? Life is warp and woof. It must be 
held together somehow. And the woof is what we 
call society.” 

“ Father,” she said timidly, “there will be a 
station at the glen in the morning. Might I ask 
the priests to breakfast here? ” 

“ By all means,” he replied, “ it will be better 
than a dejeuner in a room with two beds, and a 
squalling baby, with the bread taken from the 
blankets, and the butter from the top of the 
dresser.” 

“ Ah, no, pap, ’t is never so bad as that. They 
do their best, poor things — ” 

“ All right,” he cried. “ Bring up their rever- 
ences. There are two or three sole brought up 
from the yacht.” 

It was rather a remarkable station, that at Glen- 
carn, although we did not accept Miss Campion’s 
invitation. I was rather apprehensive of the effect 
these country stations would have on my fastidi- 
ous curate ; and I narrowly watched him, as we 
left our car on the hills, and strode through soft 
yellow mud and dripping heather to some moun- 
tain cabin. And I think there was a little kindly 
malice in my thoughts when I allowed him enter 
first, and plunge into the night of smoke that gen- 


At the Station 67 

erally filled these huts. Then the saying of Mass 
on a deal table, with a horse collar overhead, and 
a huge collie dog beneath, and hens making frantic 
attempts to get on the altar-cloth, — I smiled to 
myself, and was quite impatient to know what 
effect all these primitive surroundings would have 
on such refinement and daintiness. “ He ’ll never 
stand it,” I thought, “ he ’ll pitch up the whole 
thing, and go back to England.” As usual, I was 
quite wrong. Where I anticipated disgust, there 
were almost tears of delight and sympathy; where 
I expected indignation, I found enthusiasm. 

“ There ’s nothing like it in the world,” he used 
say (this was a favorite expression of his) ; “ such 
faith, such reverence, such kindly courtesy ! Why, 
no empress could do the honors of the table like 
that poor woman ! Did you notice her solicitude, 
her eagerness, her sensitiveness lest she should be 
intruding on our society. But those men in that 
smoky kitchen, — it took me a long time to discern 
their faces in the gloom of the smoke. And then 
I ’d have given half that I have ever learned to be 
able to paint them, — strong, brave mountaineers, 
their faces ruddy from sun and wind ; and such a 
reverential attitude ! And then the idea of their 
coming over to me, a young lad like themselves, 
and kneeling down on the cobblestones, and whis- 
pering their little story, — there in the presence of 
their comrades ; and the little maidens with their 
sweet, pure faces hidden under the hoods of their 


68 My New Curate 

shawls; and the eyes of wondering children, and 
the old men, bending over the fire, — why you 
ought to be the happiest man on the face of the 
earth, — they are a people to die for ! ” 

Well, this morning at Glencarn we had a scene; 
and, as an easy, good-tempered old man, I hate 
scenes, and keep away from them. The morning 
was sullenly wet, — not in fierce, autumnal gusts, 
but there was a steady persistent downpour of 
soft, sweet rain, that bathed your face like a 
sponge, and trickled under your coat collar, and 
soaked your frieze and waterproof, and made you 
feel flabby and warm and uncomfortable. We did 
not see the cabin until we were quite close to it ; 
and when we entered, the first person we saw, 
kneeling on the mud floor, but the kindness of 
the people had placed a bag under her knees, was 
Bittra Campion. She was wrapped round about 
with a waterproof cloak, the hood of which, lined 
with blue, covered her head, and only left her face 
visible. There she knelt among the simple peo- 
ple ; and if the saint of the day appeared in bodily 
form, I am not sure that he would have received 
more reverence than was poured around that 
gentle figure from the full hearts that beat silently 
near her. I was not much surprised, for I had 
seen Miss Campion at stations before ; but Father 
Letheby started back in astonishment, and looked 
inquiringly at me. I took no notice, but passed 
into the little bedroom, and commenced hearing 
confessions. 


At the Station 


6 9 


The tinkling of the little bell was the only indi- 
cation I had of the progress of the Holy Sacrifice; 
and when I knew it was ended, and was studying 
some faded photographs of American friends over 
the rude mantelpiece, I heard, amid the profound 
silence, Father Letheby’s voice suddenly raised in 
anger. 

“ Kneel down at once ! Have you no respect 
for Him whom you have just received, and who is 
before you on the altar? ” 

The people had arisen the moment the last 
prayer was said. It grated on the feelings of the 
young priest, who, as I afterwards found, had the 
most intense reverence and devotion towards the 
Most Holy Sacrament. I waited for some min- 
utes ; then came out, and read the Station List, 
and returned to the little bedroom off the kitchen. 
Miss Campion came in, and proffered the hospital- 
ity of her home. We gladly declined. It would 
have pained our humble hosts to have turned our 
backs upon them ; and I confess I was infinitely 
more at my ease there in that little bedroom with 
its mud floor and painted chairs, than in Captain 
Campion’s dining-room. It is quite true, that 
James Casey cut the bread very thick, and drank 
his tea with a good deal of expression from his 
saucer. But these were slight drawbacks. The 
eggs were fresh and milky, the cream delicious, 
the tea strong, the bread crispy, the butter sweet 
and golden; and the daughters of the house and 


70 My New Curate 

the mother waited on us with a thoroughness and 
courtesy, that would have done credit to a court; 
and we talked on all subjects, — the weather, 
the harvest, the neighbors ; and chaffed old Dan 
Downey — who was a great Biblical scholar — 
about the “ Jeroakims,” and asked him where a 
hare might be found on the mountains; but this 
was professional, so he stuffed his mouth with bread, 
; insured his statutory silence. Then the little 
children crept in shyly for bits of sugar; and the 
neighbors waited patiently till the clergy were 
served ; and we left the house with our blessing, 
and such gratitude as only an Irish priest can feel 
for his flock. 

The same steady, persistent downpour of rain 
continued as we passed over the boulders of the 
torrent, and made our way through slushy mud 
and dripping heather to where our horse was 
waiting. Father Letheby was slightly moody. 

At last, taking off his hat, and shaking down 
streams of water, he said : — 

“ That was a shocking thing this morning. 
You heard me speak angrily. Imagine those peo- 
ple standing up coolly, immediately after having 
received Holy Communion; and I have spoken 
to them so repeatedly about reverence.” 

“Did you notice where they were kneeling?” I 
said, not unkindly. 

“ Well, indeed it was not velvet.” 

“ No,” I said, “ but rough cobblestones, rather 


At the Station 71 

pointed, like some allusions in our sermons. Do 
you know how long they were kneeling there? ” 
“During Mass/’ he said. 

“No,” I replied, “they knelt there during the 
confessions, and during Mass. I am not excusing 
them, but did you ever hear of the ancient pen- 
ance of wearing peas in pilgrims’ shoes? Some, I 
believe, and I think Erasmus is the authority, had 
the wisdom to boil those peas. But you earn 
boil cobblestones. I never realized this part of 
our people’s sufferings till a poor fellow one 
morning, whilst I sat comfortably by the fire, 
interrupted his confession to say : — 

“ For the love of God, your reverence, would 
you lave me put my cap under my knees? ” 

My curate laughed good-naturedly. We got out 
on the highroad at last ; and as we jogged home 
in the soft, warm rain, I took the opportunity of 
giving a little advice. It is a little luxury I am 
rather fond of, like the kindred stimulant of a 
pinch of snuff ; and as I have had but few 
luxuries in my life, no one ought grudge me 
this. 

“ My dear Father Letheby,” I said, as we sat 
comfortably together, “ the great principle of 
Irish life is qaieta non movere. Because, when you 
lay a finger on the most harmless and impotent 
things, they spring at once into hissing and spit- 
ting things, like the Lernaean hydra; and then, 
like that famous monster, you must cauterize the 


72 My New Curate 

wound to heal, or prevent new hideous develop- 
ments. You have, as yet, no idea of how many 
ways, all different and mutually antagonistic, there 
are, of looking at things in Ireland. To your 
mind there seems but one, — one judgment, and 
therefore one course of action. There are a hun- 
dred mirrors concentrated on the same object, and 
each catches its own shape and color from passion 
and interest. And each is quite honest in its own 
portraiture, and each is prepared to fight for its 
own view to the bitter end.” 

“ I beg your pardon, sir,” my curate said, defer- 
entially, “ I am following you with great atten- 
tion. Do I understand you to say that each 
mirror is prepared to fight for its own view to the 
bitter end? I have seen something like that in a 
comic picture — ” 

“You know, you rascal, what I mean,” I said, 
“ I mean the hands that hold the mirrors.” 

“ Of course,” he said, “ my stupidity. But I 
am a little bit of a purist in language.” 

Now, isn’t this annoying? Poor Father Tom 
never interrupted me. He always used say: 
“ Yes ! yes ! to be sure ! to be sure ! ” or, “ Ki bono ? 
ki bono? ” which grated horribly on my ears. I see 
I must be more careful; and I shall defer this 
lecture. 

“Might I ask you to proceed, sir?” he said. 
“ It is very interesting, indeed. You were talking 
about the pugnacity of mirrors.” 


At the Station 73 

There was a slight acidity here; but the poor 
fellow was put out. 

“Never mind, ,, I said, “you have a great deal 
to learn yet — with wrinkles and gray hairs. 
But if you want to keep these raven locks, now 
wet and dripping, intact, remember, quieta non 
movere! And if you want to keep your face, 
now smooth and ruddy, but, I regret to say, glis- 
tening with rain, free from wrinkles, remember, 
quieta non movere . Take now your frequent 
altar denunciations of local superstitions, — the 
eggs found in the garden, and the consequent 
sterility of the milk, the evil eye and the cattle 
dying, etc., etc., — it will take more than altar 
denunciations, believe me, — it will take years 
of vigorous education to relegate these ideas into 
the limbo of exploded fantasies. And the people 
won’t be comfortable without them. You take 
away the poetry, which is an essential element in 
the Gaelic character, and you make the people 
prosaic and critical, which is the worst thing pos- 
sible for them. Thiggin-thu? But I beg your 
pardon. You are beyond all that.” 

“ It sounds plausible,” he said, getting down 
from the gig; “but it sounds also, pardon the 
expression, cowardly. However, we ’ll see ! ” 


CHAPTER VII 


SCRUPLES 

Captain Campion gave a large dinner party on 
All-Hallows-Eve. It is a ghostly time ; and, in 
Ireland, every one, even the most advanced and 
materialistic, feels that the air is full of strange 
beings, who cannot be accounted for either by the 
microscope or the scalpel. Father Letheby was 
invited and went. I was rather glad he did go, for 
I felt that the village was rather dull for such a 
brilliant young fellow; and I had a kind of par- 
donable pride in thinking that he would be fully 
competent to meet on their own level any preten- 
tious people that might stray hither from more 
civilized centres. There is hardly, indeed, any 
great risk of meeting too intellectual people in 
Ireland just now. The anatomy of a horse is 
about the term and end of the acquired knowl- 
edge of the stronger sex; and the latest ball — 
well, this won’t do ! I must suspend this criticism, 
otherwise I shall wound, and that does not suit an 
old priest, who is beginning to hear the murmurs 
of the eternal seas. 

Father Letheby walked over across the moor to 
the “ Great House.” It was growing dark when 


Scruples 75 

he left home, and he allowed himself a full hour, 
as he had to make some calls by the way. One 
of these calls led him to a house where an old 
woman was bedridden. Her son, a strong man of 
thirty years or more, was doing something strange 
when the priest unexpectedly entered. He was 
suffering from a scrofulous ulcer in the neck, and 
it was a hideous disfigurement. He had just been 
standing before a broken piece of looking-glass, 
stuck in the rough plaster of the wall ; and he. 
hastily hid something as the priest entered. Father 
Letheby’s suspicions were instantly aroused. And 
he said hastily, — for he detested anything like 
concealment, — 

“ What have you been doing? ” 

“ Nothing, your reverence,” said the peasant, 
nervously. 

“Then, what are you hiding?” said Father 
Letheby. 

“ Nothing, your reverence,” said the poor fel- 
low. 

“ Tell the priest, Ned, alanna,” said the old 
woman from her bed. “Sure, ’tis only a charm 
which the good ’oman has set, Father. And it’s 
cured him already.” 

The young man scowled at his aged mother; 
and in response to an emphatic gesture from the 
priest, he pulled out a little coil of rope, partly 
worn at the end into a little wisp of flax. 

“ And are you such an utter fool,” said the 


76 My New Curate 

priest, angrily, holding the rope gingerly between 
his fingers, “as to believe that that wretched thing 
could cure you ? ” 

“ It has cured me,” said the young man. “ Look 
here ! ” 

Father Letheby looked; and sure enough, there 
was but a faint scar, as of a burn, on the place 
where he knew well there had been a hideous 
running ulcer a few days ago. He was struck 
dumb. 

“ I am not surprised,” he said, recovering him- 
self rapidly; “ I know Satan possesses supernat- 
ural power. But you, unhappy man, do you not 
know that it is to the devil you owe your cure? ” 

“ I told him so, your reverence,” whimpered the 
poor mother. “ I said, better be sick forever, 
Ned, than break God’s law. Sure, nothing good 
can come from it.” 

“ Thin why did God allow it?” said the young 
man, angrily. 

“ If you knew anything of your religion,” said 
the priest, “you might know that God permits 
evil things to happen. So much the worse for evil 
doers. You have committed grave sin.” 

“But, sure, this is good,” said the poor fellow, 
feebly groping after theological lights, “ and what- 
ever is good comes from God.” 

“ The effect may be good,” said the priest, “ the 
instrument is bad. What is that?” and he pointed 
to the rope that was dangling in his hand. 


77 


Scruples 

The young man was silent. 

“You are afraid to tell? Now what is it? 
There’s something uncanny about it?” 

He fumbled with his vest, and looked sullenly 
into the darkening night. 

“ Then, as you won’t answer, I ’ll take it with 
me,” said the priest, folding the rope into a coil, 
and preparing to put it in his pocket. 

There was a sullen smile around the young 
man’s mouth. 

“ The owner will be looking for it,” said he. 

“ Tell the owner that Father Letheby has it, and 
she can come to me for it,” said the priest. He 
put the rope in his pocket and moved to the door. 

“Don’t! don’t! Father dear,” said the old 
woman. “ It is n’t good. Give it back, and Ned 
will give it to the good ’oman to-morrow.” 

“ No ! I shall give it myself,” said the priest, 
“ and a bit of my mind with it.” 

The young man moved to the door, and stood 
beside the priest. 

“You would not touch it if you knew what it 
was,” he whispered. 

“ What?” said Father Letheby. 

“ Do you remember old Simmons, the pinsioner, 
down at Lougheagle? ” 

“ Who destroyed himself ? ” 

“ Yes ! he hanged himself to a rafter in the 
barn.” 

“ I remember having heard of it.” 


78 My New Curate 

“ He hanged himself with a rope.” 

“ I presume so.” 

“ Your reverence has the rope in your pocket.” 

The priest stepped back as if stung. The thing 
was so horrible that he lost his self-possession. 
Then a great flood of anger swept his soul ; and 
taking the hideous instrument from his pocket, he 
passed over to the open hearth ; with one or two 
turns of the wheel, that answers the purpose of a 
bellows in Ireland, he kindled the smouldering 
ashes into flame, buried the rope deep down in 
the glowing cinders, and watched it curl into a 
white ash, that bent and writhed like a serpent in 
pain. The old woman told her beads, and then 
blessed the priest, with, however, a tremor of 
nervous fear in her voice. The young man lifted 
his hat, as the priest, without a word, passed into 
the darkness. 

“ She ’ll be after asking for the rope, your rev- 
erence?” he said at length, when the priest had 
gone a few yards. 

“ Refer her to me,” Father Letheby said. “ And 
look here, young man,” he cried, coming back and 
putting his face close to the peasant’s, “ I ’d advise 
you to go to your confession as soon as you can, 
lest, in the words of Scripture, * something worse 
happen to you.’ ” 

It was a pleasant dinner party at the “ Great 
House.” Colonel Campion presided. Bittra sat 
opposite her father. Captain Ormsby, Inspector 


Scruples 79 

of Coast Guards, was near her. There were some 
bank officials from a neighboring town; Lord 

L ’s agent and his wife; a military surgeon ; 

a widower, with two grown daughters; the new 
Protestant Rector and his wife. Father Letheby 
was very much pleased. He was again in the 
society that best suited his natural disposition. It 
was tolerably intelligent and refined. The lights, 
the flowers, the music, told on his senses, long 
numbed by the quietness and monotony of his 
daily life. He entered into the quiet pleasures of 
the evening with zest, made all around him happy, 
and even fascinated by the brilliancy with which 
he spoke, so much so that Bittra Campion said to 
him, as he was leaving about eleven o’clock : — 

“ Father, we are infinitely obliged to you.” 

He returned home, filled with a pleasant excite- 
ment, that was now so unusual to him in his quiet, 
uneventful life. The moonlight was streaming over 
sea and moorland, and he thought, as he passed 
over the little bridge that spanned the fiord, and 
stepped out into the broad road : — 

“ A delightful evening ! But I must be careful. 
These Sybaritic banquets unfit a man for sterner 
work ! I shall begin to hate my books and to 
loathe my little cabin. God forbid ! But how 
pleasant it was all. And how Campion and Orms- 
by jumped at that idea of mine about the fishing 
schooner. I look on the matter now as accom- 
plished. After all, perhaps, these Irish gentry are 


80 My New Curate 

calumniated. Nothing could equal the ardor of 
these men for the welfare of the poor fishermen. 
Who knows? In six months’ time, the ‘Star of 
the Sea ’ may be ploughing the deep, and a fleet 
of sailing boats in her wake ; and then the fish- 
curing stores, and, at last, the poor old village will 
look up and be known far and wide. Dear me ! 
I must get that lovely song out of my brain, and 
the odor of those azaleas out of my senses. ’T will 

v 

never do ! A Kempis would shame me ; would 
arraign me as a rebel and a traitor. What a lovely 
night ! and how the waters sleep in the moonlight ! 
Just there at the bend we ’ll build the newsier. I 
see already the ‘ Star of the Sea ’ putting out, and 
the waters whitening in her wake.” 

He looked around, and saw the cottages of the 
peasants and the laborers gleaming against the 
dark background of the moor and the mountain; 
and the thought smote him : Perhaps there some 
little children went to bed hungry to-night. He 
went home sadly, and, sitting down, he said : — 

“ Let me see ! Soup, entrees, joints, sweets, 
fruits, wine, coffee. Let me see ! White roses, 
azaleas, chrysanthemums. Let me see ! Waldteufel, 
Strauss, Wagner ! Let me see ! ” 

He went over, and opened what appeared to be 
a rather highly decorated cupboard. He drew 
back three shutters, and revealed a triptych, sunk 
deep in the wall of his little parlor. It was the 
only thing of real value he held. It was given to 


Scruples 8 1 

him by a Roman lady, who, for one reason or 
another, chose to reside in England. It nearly 
filled the entire space on the low wall. As he 
drew back the shutters, the lamplight fell on the 
figure that occupied the whole of the central panel. 
It was the Christ. The tall shape was closely 
wrapped around in the Jewish kethoneth, — the 
first of the vestes albce of the priest, as St. John 
represents in the Apocalypse. The capouche fell 
loosely over His head, and was embroidered in 
many colors, as was also the hem of His long 
white robe, which fell in folds over His sandalled 
feet. The hood of the capouche shaded His eyes 
and threw a dark shadow on the face as far as the 
lips. But the sacred figure also held its right 
hand to shelter the eyes more deeply from a 
strong glare of sunset. The left hand fell loosely 
by His side, and the first of a large flock of sheep 
had nestled its head comfortably in the open palm. 
The large, gray eyes of Christ were filled with an 
anxious light, as they gazed over the silent desert, 
questing for some lost object; and the mouth, 
lightly fringed with beard, was querulous with 
pain and solicitude. It was a beautiful picture, 
— one worthy to be screened from indevout 
eyes, or revealed only to those who loved and 
worshipped. 

The young priest gazed long and lovingly at 
this presentment of his Divine Master, whom he 
loved with the strongest personal affection. Then 
6 


82 My New Curate 

he knelt down and pressed his forehead against 
the dust-stained feet of Christ, and moaned : — 

“ Master, if I have done wrong in aught this 
night, let me know it ! If I have betrayed Thy 
interests, or brought Thy Name to shame, teach 
me in the sharpest tones and flames of Thy anger, 
for I need a monitor; and where shall I find so 
loving or so truthful a monitor as Thou? Alas! 
how weak and pitiful I am, and how this poor 
unsubdued nature of mine craves for things be- 
yond Thee ! I know there is no truth but in 
Thee, — no sincerity, no constancy. I know what 
men are ; how deceitful in their words ; how un- 
kind in their judgments. Yet this lower being 
within my being forever stretches out its longings 
to sensible things that deceive, and will not rest in 
Thee, who art all Truth. But I must be brought 
back to Thee through the sharp pangs of trial 
and tears. Spare me not, O Master ! only do not 
punish with the deprivation of Thy Love ! ” 

He rose up strengthened, yet with a premo- 
nition in his heart of great trials awaiting him. 
Who would dream of such tragic things under 
the heavy skies and the dull environments of life 
in Ireland? 


CHAPTER VIII 


OUR CONCERT 

The winter stole in quietly, heralded by the white 
frosts of late October; and nothing occurred 
to disturb the quiet of the village, except that 
Father Letheby’s horse, a beautiful bay, ran sud- 
denly lame one evening, as he topped a hill, and 
a long reach of mountain lay before him on his 
way to a sick-call. There were, of course, a hun- 
dred explanations from as many amateurs as to 
the cause of the accident. Then a quiet farmer, 
who suspected something, found a long needle 
driven deep into the hoof. It had gone deeper 
and deeper as the action of the horse forced it, 
until it touched the quick, and the horse ran dead 
lame. The wound festered, and the animal had 
to be strung up with leather bands to the roof of 
his stable for three months. Father Letheby felt 
the matter acutely; but it was only to myself he 
murmured the one significant word, Ahriman. 

Late one evening in November a deputation 
waited on me. It consisted of the doctor, the 
schoolmaster, and one or two young fellows, gen- 
erally distinguished by their vocal powers at the 
public house, when they were asked for “their 


84 My New Curate 

fisht and their song.” The doctor opened negoti- 
ations. I have a great regard for the doctor, and 
he knows it. He is a fine young fellow, a great 
student, and good and kind to the poor. I often 
spent a pleasant hour in his surgery over his 
microscope, where I saw wonderful things; but 
what has haunted me most is the recollection of 
a human brain, which the doctor had preserved in 
spirits, and on which he has given me several 
lectures. I remember well my sensations when I 
first held the soft, dark, pulpy mass in my hand. 
All that I had ever read in psychology and meta- 
physics came back to me. This is the instrument 
of God’s masterpiece, — the human soul. Over 
these nodes and fissures it floated, like the spirit 
of God over the face of the deep. Here, as on a 
beautiful instrument, the spirit touched the keys, 
and thought, like music, came forth ; and here were 
impressed indelibly ideas of the vast universe with- 
out, of time and eternity; yea, even of the Infi- 
nite and Transcendent, — of God. Hushed in the 
silence of prayer, here the soul brooded as a dove 
above its nest; and here in moments of tempta- 
tion and repentance, it argued, reasoned, prayed, 
implored the inferior powers that rebelled or re- 
canted beneath. With what sublime majesty it 
ruled and swayed the subjects that owned its im- 
perial dominion ; and how it touched heaven on 
the one hand for pity, and earth on the other in 
power! And when the turbulent passions raged 


Our Concert 85 

and stormed, it soothed and quelled their rebel- 
lion ; and then, in recompense to itself, it went out 
and up towards the celestials, and joined its eman- 
cipated sisters before the great white throne, and 
drank in peace and the blessedness of calm from 
the silences and worship of Heaven. Where is 
that soul now? Whither has it gone? Silent is 
the instrument, just crumbling to inevitable decay. 
But where in the boundless ocean of space is the 
deathless spirit that once ruled it in majesty, and 
drew from it music whose echoes roll through 
eternity? And how has science mapped and par- 
celled it, like a dead planet. Here is the “ island of 
Reil,” here the “ pons Varolii ” ; here is the “ arbor 
vitae ” ; and here is the “ subarachnoid space ” ; and 
here that wonderful contrivance of the great De- 
signer that regulates the arterial supplies. I lift 
my hat reverentially and whisper, Laud ate ! 

Well, the doctor knew how much I appreciated 
him. He was not nervous, therefore, in broaching 
the subject. 

“ We have come to see you, sir, about a concert.” 

“ A what? ” I said. 

“ A concert,” he replied, in a little huff. “ They 
have concerts every winter over at Labbawally, 
and at Balreddown, and even at Moydore; and 
why shouldn’t we?” 

I thought a little. 

“ I always was under the impression,” I said, 
“ that a concert meant singers.” 


86 


My New Curate 

“ Of course,” they replied. 

“Well, and where are you to get singers here? 
Are you going to import again those delectable 
harridans that illustrated the genius of Verdi with 
rather raucous voices a few weeks ago ? ” 

“ Certainly not, sir,” they replied in much indig- 
nation. “The boys here can do a little in that 
way; and we can get up a chorus amongst the 
school-children; and — and — ” 

“ And the doctor himself will do his share,” said 
one of the deputation, coming to the aid of the 
modest doctor. 

“ And then,” I said, “ you must have a piano to 
accompany you, unless it is to be all in the style 
of ‘ come-all-yeen’s.’ ” 

“ Oh, ’twill be something beyond that,” said the 
doctor. “ I think you ’ll be surprised, sir.” 

“ And what might the object of the concert 
be?” I asked. 

“ Of course, the poor,” they all shouted in 
chorus. “ Wait, your reverence,” said one diplo- 
matist, “ till you see all we ’ll give you for the poor 
at Christmas.” 

Visions of warm blankets for Nelly Purcell, and 
Mag Grady; visious of warm socks for my little 
children; visions of tons of coal and cartloads of 
timber; visions of vast chests of tea and moun- 
tains of currant-cake swam before my imagination ; 
and I could only say : — 

“ Boys, ye have my blessing.” 


Our Concert 87 

“ Thank your reverence,” said the doctor. “ But 
what about a subscription?” 

“For what?” I said. “If we all have to sub- 
scribe, what is the meaning of the concert?” 

“ Ah, but you know, sir, there are preliminary 
expenses, — getting music, etc., — and we must ask 
the respectable people to help us there.” 

This meant the usual guinea. Of course, they 
got it. 

The evening of the concert came, and I was 
very reluctant to leave my arm-chair and the fire 
and the slippers. And now that my curate and 
I had set to work steadily at our Greek authors, 
to show the Bishop we could do something, I put 
aside my Homer with regret, and faced the frost 
of November. The concert was held in the old 
store down by the creek; and I shivered at the 
thought of two hours in that dreary room, with 
the windows open and a sea draught sweeping 
through. To my intense surprise, I gave up my 
ticket to a well-dressed young man with a basket 
of flowers in his button-hole ; and I passed into a 
hall where the light blinded me, and I was 
dazed at the multitude of faces turned towards 
me. And there was a great shout of cheering; 
and I took off my great-coat, and was glad I 
had come. 

There was a stage in front, covered with plants 
and carpeted ; and a grand piano peeped out 
from a forest of shrubs and palms; and lamps 


88 My New Curate 

twinkled everywhere ; and I began to think it was 
all a dream, when Miss Campion came over, and 
said she was so glad I had come, etc., and I whis- 
pered : — 

“ I understand all now, when I see the little 
witch that has made the transformation.” 

Father Letheby sat by me, quiet and demure, 
as usual. He looked as if he had known nothing 
of all this wonder-working ; and when I charged 
him solemnly with being chief organizer, builder, 
framer, and designer in all this magic, he put me 
off gently : — 

“ You know we must educate the people, sir. 
And you know our people are capable of any- 
thing.” 

I believed him. 

Presently, there was a great stir at the end of 
the long room, and I looked around cautiously; 
for we were all so grand, I felt I should be digni- 
fied indeed. 

“Who are these gentry, coming up the centre 
of the hall?” I whispered; for a grand procession 
was streaming in. 

“ Gentry? ” he said. “Why, these are the per- 
formers.” They were just passing, — dainty little 
maidens, in satin from the bows in their wavy and 
crisp locks down to their white shoes ; and they 
carried bouquets, and a subtle essence of a thou- 
sand odors filled the air. 

“ Visitors at the Great House? ” I whispered. 


Our Concert 


89 


“ Not at all,” he cried impatiently. “ They are 
our own children. There ’s Mollie Lennon, the 
smith’s daughter ; and there ’s Annie Logan, whose 
father sells you the mackerel ; and there ’s Tessie 
Navin, and Maudie Kennedy, and — ” 

“ Who ’s that grand young lady, with her hair 
done up like the Greek girls of Tanagra?” I 
gasped. 

“ Why, that ’s Alice Moylan, the monitress.” 

“ Good heavens,” was all I could say. And the 
doctor sailed in with his cohort, all in swallow- 
tails and white fronts, their hair plastered down or 
curled, like the fiddlers in an orchestra; and the 
doctor stooped down and saw my amazement, and 
whispered : — 

“ Did n’t I tell you we ’d surprise you, Father 
Dan? ” 

Just then a young lad, dressed like a doll, and 
with white kid gloves, handed me a perfumed 
programme. 

“ I charge a penny all around, but not to you, 
Father Dan.” 

I thanked him politely and with reverence. 

“ Who ’s that young gentleman? ” I whispered. 

“ Don’t you know him?” said Father Letheby, 
smothering a laugh. 

“ I never saw him before,” I said. 

“ You cuffed him last Sunday for ringing the 
bell at the Agnus Dei 

“ I cuffed that young ruffian, Carl Daly,” I said. 


90 My New Curate 

“That’s he,” said Father Letheby. Then I 
thought Father Letheby was making fun of me, 
and I was getting cross, when I heard, “ Hush ! ” 
and Miss Campion rose up and passed on to the 
stage, and took her place at the piano, and with 
one little wave of the hand, she marshalled them 
into a crescent, and then there was a pause, and 
then — a crash of music that sent every particle 
of blood in my old body dancing waltzes, and I 
began to feel that I was no longer Daddy Dan, 
the old pastor of Kilronan, but a young curate 
that thinks life all roses, for his blood leaps up in 
ecstasy, and his eyes are straining afar. 

One by one the singers came forward, timid, 
nervous, but they went through their parts well. 
At last, a young lady, with bronze curls cut short, 
but running riot over her head and forehead, came 
forward. She must have dressed in an awful 
hurry, for she forgot a lot of things. 

“What’s the meaning of this?” I whispered 
angrily. 

“ Sh’, ’t is the fashion,” said Father Letheby. 
“ She ’s not from our parish.” 

“ Thank God,” I said fervently. I beckoned to 
Mrs. Mullins, a fine motherly woman, who sat 
right across the aisle. She came over. 

“Have you any particular use of that shawl 
lying on your lap, Mrs. Mullins?” I said. 

“ No,” she said, “ I brought it against the night 


Our Concert 91 

“ Then you ’d do a great act of charity,” I said, 
“ if you ’d just step up on that stage and give it to 
that young lady to cover her shoulders and arms. 
She’ll catch her death of cold.” 

“ For all the money you have in the National 
Bank, Father Dan,” said Mrs. Mullins, “ and they 
say you have a good little nest there, I would n’t 
do it. See how she ’s looking at us. She knows 
we are talking about her. And her mother is 
Julia Lonergan, who lives at the Pike, in the par- 
ish of Moydore.” 

Sure enough, Phoebe Lonergan, for that was her 
name, was looking at us ; and her eyes were glint- 
ing and sparkling blue and green lights, like the 
dog-star on a frosty night in January. And I 
knew her mother well. When Julia Lonergan 
put her hands on her hips, and threw back her 
head, the air became sulphurous and blue. I de- 
termined not to mind the scantiness of the 
drapery, though I should not like to see any of 
my own little children in such a state. Whilst I was 
meditating thus, she came to the end of her song; 
and then let a yell out of her that would startle a 
Red Indian. 

“Why did she let that screech out of her?” 
said I to Father Letheby. “ Was it something 
stuck in her? ” 

“ Oh, not at all,” said he, “ that ’s what they call 
a bravura .” 

I began to feel very humble. And then a queer 


92 My New Curate 

thing happened. I thought I was a young curate, 
long before the days of Maynooth statutes, and all 
these new regulations that bind us as tightly as 
Mrs. Darcy’s new alb. We were out at the hunt 
on a glorious November morning, the white frost 
on the grass, and the air crisp and sunny. The 
smell of the fields, the heather, and the withered 
bracken, came to us, and the bay coats and the 
black coats of the horses shone like silk in the 
sunlight. There were the usual courtesies, the 
morning salutes, and the ladies’ smiles ; and then 
we moved to the cover, the dogs quivering with 
excitement, and we not too composed. And then 
far across the ploughed field we saw the arch- 
enemy, Reynard, his brush straight out from his 
back; and with one shout, Hoicks! and Harka- 
way ! we broke out into the open, and, with every 
nerve and muscle strained, and the joy of the 
chase in our hearts, we leaped onward to the 
contest. All the exhilaration and intense joy of 
youth and freedom and the exercise of life were in 
my veins, and I shouted Tally-ho ! Harkaway, my 
boys ! at the top of my voice. 

A gentle hand was laid on mine, and I awoke 
from my dream. The .people were all smiling 
gravely, and the chorus was just finishing the last 
bars of that best of all finales : Tally-ho ! It was 
the witchery of the music that called up the glori- 
ous past. 

Then there was hunting for shawls and wraps, 
and such a din : — 


93 


Our Concert 

“Wasn’t it grand, Father Dan?” 

“Aren’t you proud of your people, Father 
Dan?” 

“Where is Moydore now, Father Dan?” 

“Didn’t we do well, Father Dan?” 

And then Miss Campion came over demurely 
and asked : — 

“ I hope you were pleased with our first per- 
formance, Father?” 

And what could I say but that it was all beauti- 
ful and grand, and I hoped to hear it repeated, 
etc. 

But then, when I had exhausted my enthusiasm, 
a band of these young fairies, their pretty faces 
flushed with excitement, and the stars in their curls 
bobbing and nodding at me, came around me. 

“ It ’s now our turn, Father Dan. We want one 
little dance before we go.” 

“ What? ” I cried, “children like you dancing! 
I’d be well in my way, indeed. Come now, sing 
‘ Home, Sweet Home,’ and away to Blanketland 
as fast as you can.” 

“ Ah, do, Father Dan ! ” 

“ Ah, do, Father Dan ! ” 

“ One little dance ! ” 

“ We ’ll be home in half an hour ! ” 

“ Ah do, \Paddy Dan ! ” 

There was consternation. I knew that I was 
called by that affectionate, if very undignified 
title; but this was the first time it was spoken 


94 My New Curate 

to my face ; and there was horror on the faces 
of the young ones. But it carried the day. I 
looked around, and saw some white waistcoats 
peeping shyly behind a glass door. 

“The boys are all gone home, I believe?” I 
said innocently. 

“ Oh, long and merry ago, Father. The lazy 
fellows would n’t wait.” 

“ And all the dancing will be amongst your- 
selves? ” 

Chorus : “ Of course, Father ! ” 

“ And no waltzes or continental abominations? ” 

Chorus : “ Oh dear, no ! ” 

“ And you ’ll all be in your beds at twelve 
o’clock?” 

Chorus: “To the minute, Father/’ 

“ Well, God forgive me, but what can I do? Go 
on, you little heathens, and — ” 

“Thank you, Father — ” 

“ Thank you, Father — ” 

“ Thank you, Father— ,” etc., etc. 

I went home with a troubled conscience, and I 
read that blessed Maynooth statute about dances. 
Then I had no sleep that night. 

The doctor -and the deputation called on me 
about a fortnight later to settle accounts. I thought 
they were not very enthusiastic. They left the 
door open, and sat near it. 

“ We came to settle about the concert, sir,” said 
the doctor; “we thought you ’d would like to see 
our balance-sheet.” 


Good Heavens ! ” was all I could say. (p. 89.) 


s 

































Our Concert 95 

“ Yes,” I said, demurely, “ and, of course, if the 
balance itself was convenient — ” 

“ It is n’t as much as we thought,” said the 
doctor, laying a small brown parcel on the table. 
“ The expenses were enormous. Now, look at 
these,” he said, softly detaining my hand, as it 
moved towards the parcel. 

I read the list of expenses. It was appalling. 
I cast a corner of my eye farther down, and read, 
without pretending to see anything : — 

“Total balance = 4 s. 11 j 4 d.” 

“ Boys,” said I, as I saw them putting their 
hands over their mouths with that unmistakable 
Hibernian gesture, “you have done yourselves 
a great injustice.” 

“ I assure you, sir,” said the schoolmaster — 

“You mistake my meaning,” I interrupted. 
“ What I was about to say was this, — when young 
men give their services gratuitously, and under- 
take great labor in the cause of religion and char- 
ity, it would be most unfair to expect that they 
would also make a pecuniary sacrifice.” 

They looked relieved. 

“ Now, I have reason to know that you all have 
undergone great expense in connection with this 
concert.” 

There was a smirk of pharisaical satisfaction on 
their faces. 

“ But I cannot allow it. My conscience would 
not permit me. I see no record in this balance- 


g6 My New Curate 

sheet of the three dozen of Guinness that was or- 
dered for the dressing-room. And there' is not a 
word about the box of Havanas, which William 
Mescal ordered specially from Dublin ; nor any 
mention of the soda-water and accompaniments 
that were hauled up in a basket through the back 
window. Really, I cannot allow it, gentlemen, 
your generosity is overpowering — ” 

The deep silence made me look around. They 
had vanished. I opened the brown parcel, and 
counted four shillings and eleven-pence halfpenny 
in coppers. 


CHAPTER IX 


SEVERELY REPRIMANDED 

It was quite impossible that these changes or 
innovations could take place without a certain 
amount of reclamation, to use the theological ex- 
pression, amongst the brethren. We are a con- 
servative race, and our conservatism has been 
eminently successful in that matter of supreme 
moment, — the preservation of the faith and the 
purity of our people. It is difficult, therefore, to 
see the necessity of change, to meet the exigencies 
of the times, and the higher demands of the nation 
and the race. Yet we have been forewarned a 
hundred times that we cannot put new wine into 
old bottles, and that a spirit is stirring amongst 
our people that must become unbridled and incon- 
tinent if not guided by new methods and new 
ideas. This is not intuitive wisdom on my part. 
It is gathered slowly and painfully amongst the 
thorns of experience. 

But I cannot say I was too surprised when, one 
morning, an old and most valued friend called 
on me, and revealed his anxiety and perturbation 
of spirit by some very deep remarks about the 
weather. We agreed wonderfully on that most 
harmonious topic, and then I said: — 

7 


98 My New Curate 

“You have something on your mind?” 

“ To be candid with you, Father Dan,” he re- 
plied, assuming a sudden warmth, “ I have. But 
I don’t like to be intrusive.” 

“ Oh, never mind,” I replied. “ I am always 
open to fraternal correction.” 

“You know,” he continued nervously, “we are 
old friends, and I have always had the greatest 
interest in you — ” 

“For goodness’ sake, Father James,” I said, 
“ spare me all that. That is all subintellectum , as 
the theologians say when they take a good deal 
for granted.” 

“ Well, then,” said he, — for this interruption 
rather nettled him, — “ to be very plain with you, 
your parish is going to the dogs. You are throw- 
ing up the sponge and letting this young man do 
what he likes. Now, I can tell you the people 
don’t like it, the priests don’t like it, and when he 
hears it, as he is sure to hear it, the Bishop won’t 
like it either.” 

“Well, Father James,” I said slowly, “passing 
by the mixed metaphors about the dogs and the 
sponge, what are exactly the specific charges made 
against this young man? ” 

“ Everything,” he replied vaguely. “ We don’t 
want young English mashers coming around here 
to teach old priests their business. We kept the 
faith—” 

“Spare me that,” I said. “And don’t say a 


Severely Reprimanded 99 

word about the famine years. That episode, and 
the grandeur of the Irish priests, is written in 
Heaven. We want a Manzoni to tell it, — that 
is, if we would not prefer to leave it unrecorded, 
except in the great book, — which is God’s mem- 
ory.” 

He softened a little at this. 

“Now,” said I, “you are a wise man. What 
do you want me to do ? ” 

“ I want you to pitch into that young fellow,” 
he said, “ to cuff him and make him keep his 
place.” 

“Very good. But be particular. Tell me, what 
am I to say? ” 

“ Say? Tell him you ’ll stand no innovations in 
your parish. Nil innovetur , nisi quod prius tradi- 
tum est. Tell him that he must go along with all 
the other priests of the diocese and conform to 
the general regulations, — Quod semper , quod ubi- 
que } quod ab omnibus. Tell him that young 
men must know their place; and then take up 
the Selva , or the Fathers, and prove it to him.” 

“ God bless you ! ” said I, thankfully and hum- 
bly. “You have taken a load off my heart. Now, 
let me see would this do.” 

I took down from the dusty shelves a favorite 
little volume, — a kind of Anthology of the early 
Fathers, and I opened it. 

“ We ’ll try the sortes Virgiliance ,” I said, and 
read slowly and with emphasis : — • 


IOO 


My New Curate 

“At nunc, etiam sacerdotes Dei, omissis Evan- 
geliis et Prophetis, vidimus comoedias legere, ama- 
toria Bucolicorum versuum verba cantare, tenere 
Virgilium, et id quod in pueris necessitatis est, 
crimen in se facere voluptatis.” 

“ That ’s not bad,” said my hearer, critically, 
whilst I held the book open with horror and 
amazement. “That applies to him, I’m sure. 
But what’s the matter, Father Dan? You are 
not ill?” 

“No,” said I, “I’m not; but I’m slightly dis- 
concerted. That anathema strikes me between the 
two eyes. What else have I been doing for fifty 
years but thumbing Horace and Virgil?” 

“ Oh, never mind,” he said, airily. “ Who wrote 
that? That’s extreme, you know.” 

“ An altogether wise and holy man, called St. 
Jerome,” I said. 

“Ah, well, he was a crank. I don’t mean that. 
That sounds disrespectful. But he was a reformer, 
you know.” 

“ A kind of innovator, like this young man of 
mine? ” I said. 

“ Ah, well, try some sensible saint. Try now 
St. Bernard. He was a wise, gentle adviser.” 

I turned to St. Bernard, and read : — 

“ Lingua magniloqua — manus otiosa! 

Sermo multus — fructus nullus ! 

Vultus gravis — actus levis ! 

Ingens auctoritas — nutans stabilitas!” 


Severely Reprimanded ioi 

That hit my friend between the eyes. The 
auguries were inauspicious. He took up his hat. 

“You are not going?” said I, reaching for the 
bell. “ I am just sending for Father Letheby to 
let you see how I can cuff him — ” 

“I — I — must be going,” he said ; “ I have 
a sick-call — that is — an engagement — I — er — 
expect a visitor — will call again. Good day.” 

“ Stay and have a glass of wine ! ” I said. 

“ No, no, many thanks ; the mare is young and 
rather restive. Aurevoir!” 

“ An revoir!” I replied, as I took up my hat 
and gold-headed cane and set out to interview and 
reprimand my curate. Clearly, something should 
be done, and done quickly. There was a good 
deal of talk abroad, and I was supposed to be 
sinking into a condition of senile incompetence. 
It is quite true that I could not challenge my 
curate’s conduct in a single particular. He was 
in all things a perfect exemplar of a Christian 
priest, and everything he had done in the parish 
since his arrival contributed to the elevation of 
the people and the advancement of religion. But 
it would n’t do. Every one said so ; and, of course, 
every one in these cases is right. And yet there 
was some secret misgiving in my mind that I 
should do violence to my own conscience were 
I to check or forbid Father Letheby’s splendid 
work ; and there came a voice from my own 
dead past to warn me : “ See that you are not 


io2 My New Curate 

opposing the work of the right hand of the Most 
High.” 

These were my doubts and apprehensions as I 
moved slowly along the road that led in a cir- 
cuitous manner around the village and skirted the 
path up to the school-house. I woke from my 
unpleasant reverie to hear the gentle murmur of 
voices, moving rhythmically as in prayer; and in a 
short bend of the road I came face to face with the 
children leaving school. I had been accustomed 
to seeing these wild, bare-legged mountaineers 
breaking loose from school in a state of subdued 
frenzy, leaping up and down the side ditches, 
screaming, yelling, panting, with their elf-locks 
blinding their eyes, and their bare feet flashing 
amid the green of grasses or the brown of the 
ditch-mould. They might condescend to drop me 
a courtesy, and then — anarchy, as before. To- 
day they moved slowly, with eyes bent modestly 
on the ground, three by three, and all chanting in 
a sweet, low tone — the Rosary. The centre girl 
was the coryphaeus with the “Our Fathers” and 
“Hail Marys”; the others, the chorus. I stood 
still in amazement and challenged them : — 

“ I am happy to see my little children so well 
employed. How long since you commenced to 
say the Rosary thus in common?” 

In a twinkling the solemnity vanished and I was 
surrounded by a chattering group. 

“Just a week, Fader ; and Fader Letheby, Fader, 


Severely Reprimanded 103 

he tould us of a place where they do be going to 
work in the morning, Fader, and dey all saying 
de Rosary togeder, Fader; and den, Fader, we do 
be saying to ourselves, why shouldn’t we, Fader, 
say de Rosary coming to school, de same as dese 
Germans, Fader?” 

“ That ’s excellent,” I said, running my eyes 
over the excited group ; “ and have you all got 
beads? ” 

“ I have, Fader,” said one of the coryphaei, “ and 
de oders do be saying it on their fingers.” 

“ I must get beads for every one of you,” I said ; 
“ and to commence, here, Anstie, is my own.” 

I gave a little brown-eyed child my own mother- 
of-pearl beads, mounted in silver, and was glad I 
had it to give. The children moved away, mur- 
muring the Rosary as before. 

Now, here clearly was an innovation. Was n’t 
this intolerable? Who ever heard the like? 
Where would all this stop? Why, the parish is 
already going to the dogs ! He has played right 
into my hands. Yes? Stop the Rosary ? Prevent 
the little children from singing the praises of their 
Mother and Queen? I thought I saw the face of 
the Queen Mother looking at me from the skies; 
and I heard a voice saying, prophetically : “ Ex 
ore infantium et lactantium perfecisti laudem prop- 
ter inimicos tuos, ut destruas inimicum et ultorem.” 
Clearly, the fates are against me. 

“Father Letheby was not at home, but would 


104 My New Curate 

be back presently. Would I take a chair and wait 
for a few moments ?” 

I sat down in a comfortable arm-chair lined with 
the soft rug that first elicited my housekeeper’s 
admiration. I looked around. Books were strewn 
here and there, but there was no slovenliness or 
untidiness ; and, ha ! there were the first signs of 
work on the white sheets of manuscript paper. I 
wonder what is he writing about. It is not quite 
honorable, but as I am on the war path, perhaps I 
could get here a pretext for scalping him. Notes ! 

“ November i. Dipped into several numbers of Corn- 
hill Magazine. Specially pleased with an article on 
‘ Wordsworth’s Ethics,’ in the August number, 1876. 

“ November 2. Read over Sir J. Taylor’s poems, 
principally * Philip van Artevelde,’ ‘ Isaac Comnenus,’ 
* Edwin the Fair,’ the ‘Eve of the Conquest.’ 

“ Co 7 nnenus . — Not much the doubt 
Comnenus would stand well with times to come, 

Were there the hand to write his threnody, 

Yet is he in sad truth a faulty man. 

But be it said he had this honesty, 

That, undesirous of a false renown, 

He ever wished to pass for what he was, 

One that swerved much, and oft, but being still 
Deliberately bent upon the right, 

Had kept it in the main ; one that much loved 
Whate’er in man is worthy high respect, 

And in his soul devoutly did aspire 
To be it all: yet felt from time to time 
The littleness that clings to what is human, 

And suffered from the shame of having felt it.” 


Severely Reprimanded 105 

“ Humph ! This is advanced,” I thought. “ I 
wonder does he feel like Comnenus? It is a noble 
portrait, and well worthy imitation.” 

Just then he came in. After the usual greetings 
he exclaimed, in a tone of high delight : — 

“Look here, Father, here’s a delicious tit-bit. 
Confess you never read such a piece of sublime 
self-conceit before.” 

He took up a review that was lying open on 
the desk, and read this : — 

“As for claims, these are my opinions. If Lord Liver- 
pool takes simply the claims of the scholar, Copleston’s 
are fully equal to mine. So, too, in general knowledge 
the world would give it in favor of him. If Lord Liver- 
pool looks to professional merits, mine are to Copleston’s 
as the Andes to a molehill. There is no comparison be- 
tween us ; Copleston is no theologue ; I am. If, again, 
Lord Liverpool looks to weight and influence in the 
University, I will give Copleston a month’s start and 
beat him easily in any question that comes before us. 
As to popularity in the appointment, mine will be popu- 
lar through the whole profession ; Copleston’s the con- 
trary. ... I thought, as I tell you, honestly, I should 
be able to maker myself a bishop in due time. ... I 
will conclude by telling you my own real wishes about 
myself. My anxious desire is to make myself a great 
divine, and to be accounted the best in England. My 
second wish is to become the founder of a school of 
theology at Oxford. Now, no bishopric will enable me 
to do this but the See of Oxford. I have now told you 
my most secret thoughts. What I desire is, after a few 
years, to be sure of a retirement, with good provision in 


106 My New Curate 

some easy bishopric, or Van Mildert deanery. I want 
neither London nor Canterbury : they will never suit 
me. But I want money, because I am poor and have 
children ; and I desire character, because I cannot live 
without it.” 

“Isn’t that simply delicious?” said Father 
Letheby, laying down the review, and challen- 
ging my admiration. 

“Poor fellow,” I could not help saying; “the 
last little bit of pathos about his children gilds the 
wretched picture. Who was he ? ” 

“No less a person than Dr. Lloyd, Regius 
Professor of Divinity in Oxford, and the origina- 
tor of the Tractarian Movement. But can you 
conceive a Catholic priest writing such a letter? ” 

“No,” I replied slowly, “ I cannot. But I can 
conceive a Catholic priest thinking it. I am not 
so much unlike the rest of mankind ; and I re- 
member when I came out on the mission, and had 
time to look around me, like a chicken just out of 
its shell, two things gave me a shock of intense 
surprise. First, I could not conceive how the 
Catholic Church had got on for eighteen hundred 
years without my cooperation and ability; and, 
secondly, I could not understand what fatuity 
possessed the Bishop to appoint as his vicar- 
general a feeble old man of seventy, who preached 
with hesitation, and, it was whispered, believed the 
world was flat, and that people were only jok- 
ing when they spoke of it as a globe; and pass 


Severely Reprimanded 107 

over such a paragon of perfection, an epitome of 
all the talents, like myself. It took me many 
years to recover from that surprise ; and, alas ! a 
little trace of it lingers yet. Believe me, my dear 
young friend, a good many of us are as alien in 
spirit to the Imitation as Dr. Lloyd, but we must 
not say it.” 

“ By Jove ! ” he said, “I thought there was but 
one other Dr. Lloyd in the world, and that was 

Father James ,” mentioning the name of my 

morning visitor. 

It was the first chink I had seen in the armor of 
my young Goliath, and I put in my rapier. 

“ You are not very busy? ” I said. 

“No, Father,” he replied, surprised. 

“ Would you have time to listen to a little 
story? ” 

“ Certainly,” he said, settling back in his chair, 
his head on his hands. 

“ Well,” I said slowly, “ in the first years of my 
mission I had a fellow curate, a good many years 
younger than myself. I consequently looked down 
on him, especially as he was slightly pompous in 
his manner and too much addicted to Latin and 
French quotations. In fact, he looked quite a 
hollow fellow, and apparently a selfish and self- 
contented one. I changed my opinion later on. 
He was particularly fond of horses, though he 
never rode. He was a kind of specialist in horse- 
flesh. His opinion was regarded as infallible. He 


108 My New Curate 

never kept any but the highest breed of animal. 
He had a particularly handsome little mare, which 
he called ‘ Winnie/ because he thought he saw in 
her some intelligence, like what he read of in the 
famous mare of a famous Robin Hood. She knew 
him, and followed him like a dog. He allowed no 
one to feed her, or even to groom her, but him- 
self. He never touched her with a whip. He 
simply spoke to her, or whistled, and she did all 
he desired. He had refused one hundred and 
fifty pounds for her at a southern fair a few days 
before the occurrence which I am about to relate. 
One day he had been at conference, or rather we 
were both there, for he drove me to the confer- 
ence and back. It was thirteen miles going and the 
same returning. The little mare came back some- 
what fagged. He was no light-weight, nor was I. 

“ ‘ I shall not drive her there again/ he said ; 

‘ I ’ll get an old hack for these journeys.’ 

“ Before he sat down to dinner he fed and 
groomed her, and threw her rug over her for the 
night She whinnied with pleasure at reaching 
her own stable. Just as he sat down to dinner a 
sick-call was announced. It was declared ‘ urgent.’ 
After a while you won’t be too much alarmed at 
these ‘ urgent ’ calls, for they generally mean but 
little ; but on this occasion a short note was put 
into the priest’s hand. It was from the doctor. 
It ran : ‘ Come as quickly as possible. It is a 
most critical case.’ 


Severely Reprimanded 109 

“ There was no choice there. 

“ ‘ Have you brought a horse? ’ the priest cried. 

“ ‘ No, your reverence,’ said the messenger. ‘ I 
crossed down the mountain by the goat-path. 
There was no time.’ 

“The priest went straight to the stable and 
unlocked it. The mare whinnied, for she knew 
his footstep. He flashed the light upon her 
as she turned her big eyes towards him. 

“ ‘ Come, little woman,’ he said, ‘ we must be on 
the road again.’ 

“ She understood him, and moaned. 

“ He led her out and put her to his trap. Then, 
without a word, he gave her the rein, and they 
pushed on in the darkness. The road for five 
miles was as level as that table, and she went rap- 
idly forward. Then a steep hill rose before them 
for about two miles, and he relaxed a little, not 
wishing to drive her against the hill. Just then, 
on the brow he saw lights flashing and waving to 
and fro in the night. He knew the significance of 
it, and shook out the reins. The poor little ani- 
mal was so tired she could not breast the hill. He 
urged her forward. She refused. Then, for the 
first time in his life, he took out his whip. He 
did not strike her, and to this day he thanks 
God for it. But he merely shook it over her head. 
Stung by the indignity, she drew herself together 
and sprang against the hill. She went up and up, 
like a deer, whilst the trap jolted and swung from 


i to My New Curate 

side to side. Just as they reached the crest of the 
hill and heard the shouts, ‘ Hurry, your reverence, 
you ’ll never overtake her,’ the little mare plunged 
forward and fell heavily. The priest was flung 
against a boulder and struck insensible. When 
he came to, the first word he heard was, ‘ She ’s 
dead, I fear, your reverence.’ ‘Who?’ said the 
priest; ‘the woman?’ ‘No, your reverence, but 
the mare ! ’ ‘ Thank God ! ’ said the priest ; and 

he meant it. Dazed, stupefied, bleeding, he 
stumbled across rocks of red sandstone, heather, 
gorse ; he slipped over some rude stepping-stones 
that crossed a mountain torrent; and, at last, 
made his way to the rude cabin in the rough 
gorges of the mountain. The doctor was wash- 
ing his instruments as the priest entered. 

“ ‘ It 's all right, Father James/ he said cheerily. 
‘ The neatest case I ever had. But it was touch 
and go. Hello ! you ’re bleeding on the Temple. 
What’s up? ’ 

“ ‘ Oh, nothing,’ said the priest. ‘ The mare 
stumbled and threw me. I may go in ? ’ 

“‘Certainly/ said the doctor; ‘ but just allow 
me to wash that ugly wound.’ 

“ ‘ Wound? ’t is only a scratch.’ 

“ The priest went in and went through his ordi- 
nary ministrations. Then he came out, and still 
dazed and not knowing what to think, he stumbled 
back to the crest of the mountain road. There 
were men grouped around the fallen animal and the 


Severely Reprimanded 1 1 1 

broken trap. They made way for him. He knelt 
down by the poor beast and rubbed her ears, as he 
was in the habit of doing, and whispered, ‘ Winnie ! * 
The poor animal opened her eyes full upon him, 
then trembled convulsively, and died. 

“‘You will bury her, boys,’ said the priest, 
* over there under that cairn of stones, and bring 
me down the trap and harness in the morning.’ 

“ What his feelings were, as he walked home, I 
leave you to realize. We did not hear of it for 
some days ; but that ‘ Thank God ! ’ changed all 
my opinions of him. I looked up to him ever 
since, and see under all his pomposity and dig- 
nity a good deal of the grit that makes a man a 
hero or a saint.” 

“ I retract my remark unreservedly,” said my 
curate ; “ it was unjust and unfair. It is curious 
that I have never yet made an unkind remark but 
I met with prompt punishment.” 

“ You may not be a great theologian nor a deep 
thinker,” said I, “ but no man ever uttered a more 
profound saying. God may ignore our petty 
rebellions against Himself ; but when we, little 
mites, sit in contemptuous judgment on one an- 
other, He cannot keep His hands from us ! And 
so, festina lente ! festina lente! It is wholesome 
advice, given in many languages.” 

“ Is the accent on the festina or the lente , 
Father?” he said demurely. 

I looked at him. 


I I 2 


My New Curate 

“ Because,” he said, “ I have been doing things 
lately that sometimes seem inopportune, — that 
concert for example, and — ” 

“ They are all right,” I said, “ but lente ! lente ! ! ” 
“ And that little interview with the chapel wo- 
man, — I felt I could have done better — ? ” 

“ It is all right,” I repeated, “ but lente ! lente ! ! ” 
“ And I think we must stop those little children 
from saying the Rosary — ” 

This time I looked at him quite steadily. He 
was imperturbable and sphinx-like. 

“ Good evening,” I said. “ Come up after din- 
ner and let us have a chat about that line in the 
* Odes ’ we were speaking about.” 

I went homewards slowly, and, as I went, the 
thought would obtrude itself, how far I had recov- 
ered my lost authority, and succeeded in satisfying 
that insatiable monster called Public Opinion. 
For my curate had been reading for me a story by 
some American author, in which the narrative 
ended in a problem whether a lady or a tiger would 
emerge from a cage under certain circumstances ; 
and hence, a conundrum was puzzling the world, 
— the tiger or the lady, which? And my co- 
nundrum was, Had I lectured my curate, or had 
my curate lectured me? I am trying to solve the 
problem to this day. 


CHAPTER X 


OVER THE WALNUTS, AND THE 

Father Letheby did come up, and we had one 
of those pleasant meetings on which my memory 
dwells with gratitude. I hope he thinks of them 
tenderly, too ; for I believe he gave more pleasure 
and edification than he received. We old men 
are garrulous, and rather laudatory of the past 
than enthusiastic about the present. And this must 
needs chafe the nerves of those whose eyes are 
always turned toward the sanguine future. Well, 
this evening we had the famous epilogue of the 
Third Book of the Odes of Horace for discussion, 
and our thoughts turned on the poet’s certainty of 
immortality, — the immortality of fame, in which 
alone he believed. I remarked what a curious 
thing it was that men are forever craving for that 
which, when attained, they fling aside and despise. 

“ I remember a good old priest,” I said, “ who 
was very angry because he did not receive the 
ecclesiastical honors that sometimes accompany 
old age. And when I asked, rather foolishly in- 
deed, of what possible use could they be to him, 
the answer was, he would like to die with his full 
meed of honors. Well, he got them at last; and 
8 


1 1 4 - My New Curate 

after a few months his regret was that he had 
spent nine pounds on the rochet and mozetta.” 

“ Do you think he would be satisfied to go back 
to the condition of a ‘ simplex sacerdos ’ again, and 
to be called ‘Father’?” said my curate. 

“ I do. He had received recognition and was 
satisfied,” I replied. 

“There must be something in it. I remember 
now that bitter letter about Fame, which Tenny- 
son wrote when he had attained a world-wide rep- 
utation. He found Fame to be hostility from his 
peers, indifference from his superiors, worship from 
those he despised. He would barter all his Fame 
for ^5,000 a year; and was sorry he ever wrote 
a line.” 

“What then is it all? Of what consequence 
was it to Horace that a poor old priest, in the 
Ultima Thule of the earth, should find a little 
pleasure in his lines, some eighteen hundred years 
after his death?” I said, half musingly. 

“ None whatever. But these passions are the 
minor wheels of human action, and therefore of 
human progress, when the great motor, religion, is 
set aside.” 

“And you think God permits them for that 
reason? ” 

“ Possibly. By the way, Father Dan, allow 
me to congratulate you on your excellent taste. 
Why, you have made this little parlor a nest of 
luxury and refinement.” 


Over the Walnuts 115 

“ Alas ! yes. But all my comfort is gone. I 
blame you for it all, you rascal. Why did you 
come introducing your civilization here? We 
were happy enough without it. And like Fame, 
luxury brings its trials. Hannah was n’t easy until 
she rivalled your splendid establishment ; and when 
taste came in, comfort went out by the window. 
God bless me ! All I have suffered for the last 
fortnight ! I must wipe my boots at the door, and 
hang up my hat in the hall, and walk on tiptoe on 
these waxed floors. I am afraid to sit down, lest 
I should break these doll’s chairs. I am afraid to 
get up lest I should slip and break my old bones. 
I am afraid to eat lest I should soil those new 
napkins. I am afraid to drink lest I should break 
one of these new gilt cups. I have no comfort 
but in bed. What in the world did I do that you 
should have been sent here?” 

“ There ’s something in it,” he said, laughing. 
“ It is the universal law of compensation. But, 
honestly, it is all very tasteful and neat, and 
you’ll get used to it. You know it is one of 
the new and laughable arguments against the 
eternity of punishment, that you can get used 
to anything.” 

“ 1 can’t get that poor fellow, Lloyd, out of my 
head,” I said, changing the subject. “ That was a 
pitiful letter. And the pity is that a strictly pri- 
vate document, such as that was, should see the 
light and be discussed fifty years after it was writ- 


n6 My New Curate 

ten, by two priests on the west coast of Ireland. 
To whom did he write it?” 

“ To Sir Robert Peel, then Prime Minister.” 

“ There was a dear old friend of my youth,” I 
said, “who was fond of giving advice. I suppose 
I picked up the evil habit from him. But his sum- 
mary of all wisdom was this : — 

“ Never consult a doctor ! 

“ Never go security ! 

“ Never write a letter that may not be read in 
the market square ! ” 

“ I hope you have followed this sapient, but 
rather preternatural advice,” said Father Letheby. 

“ No,” I replied. “ It would have been well for 
me if I had done so.” 

We both lapsed into a brown study. 

“ It is not easy for us priests to take advice,” 
he said at last; “I suppose our functions are so 
magisterial that we cannot understand even the 
suggestion of inferiority in reproof. Was it not 
Dean Stanley who said that the Anglican clergy 
are polished into natural perfection by domestic 
interchanges of those silent corrections that are 
so necessary, and that it is the absence of these 
correctives that accounts for the so many nodes 
and excrescences of our social characteristics?” 

“True. But we won’t take correction. Or 
rather, no one dare give it. The Bishop can and 
will ; but then a word from a bishop smites like a 
Nasmyth hammer, and he is necessarily slow of 


Over the Walnuts 117 

reproof. A Parish priest nowadays dare not cor- 
rect a curate — ” 

“ I beg pardon, sir,” Father Letheby said; “I 
am sure you ’ll do me an infinite favor if you 
kindly point out my many imprudences and in- 
consistencies.” 

“ And you ’ll take it well? ” 

“Well,” he said dubiously, “I won’t promise 
that I shall not be nettled. But I’ll take it re- 
spectfully.” 

“All right. We ’ll commence this moment. Give 
up that coffee-drinking, and take an honest glass 
of punch.” 

He laughed in his own musical way. He knew 
the anguish that coffee had cost Hannah. She 
had taken to Father Letheby wonderfully. He 
had found for her a new brand of snuff, and had 
praised her cooking. And lo ! a miracle. Han- 
nah, the Parish priest’s housekeeper, had actually 
gone down and visited his servant. It was a tre- 
mendous condescension, involving a great deal of 
thought. But there was a new alliance, — -dual 
again ; it is almost like the kaleidoscopic changes 
of European politicians. Then for several days 
there were conferences and colloguings, the result 
being that, as a reward of humility, which indeed 
always brings its reward even in this world, Han- 
nah has her house furnished a la mode> and has 
learned the science of coffee-making, — a science 
little known as yet in Ireland. Of course, there 


n8 My New Curate 

have been crosses. It is not pleasant, when a 
brother priest comes in, to see him stand in amaze- 
ment and appear quite distracted whilst his polite- 
ness will not allow him to demand explanations. 
And when a more demonstrative character shouts 
Hallo ! when he comes into your parlor, and vents 
his surprise in a prolonged whistle, and looks at 
you curiously when your attention is engaged, it is 
slightly embarrassing. Then, again, I ’m told that 
the villagers are making sarcastic remarks about 
my little menage : “ Begor, Hannah won’t be left 
a pinny”; or, “Begor, Kilronan is looking up”; 
or, “ Begor, he ’ll be expecting an incrase of the 
jues” ; and one old woman, who gets an occasional 
letter from America with an enclosure, is quite 
sure I have embezzled her money, and she comes 
to the door three times a week with — “that little 
letther, your reverence? Sure, I don’t begredge 
it to you. You’re welcome to it over and over 
again ; but whin ’t is convanient, sure you won’t see 
me wantin’? But sure, Mary will think it quare 
that I never wrote to thank her.” I have given 
up protesting that I have received no letter lately 
from Mary ; but the “ purty boys ” down at the 
forge have set the poor woman crazy. “Yerra, 
where ’ud he get de money for all them grand 
tings he has? ” “ Yerra, Kate, you ’ll never see dat 

post-office order.” “ Write to the Bishop, ’oman, 
and he ’ll see you rightified.” And then, to crown 
all, comes the bill, just double what I expected. 


Over the Walnuts 119 

But it is wonderful how many extras there were, 
and how wages and the price of material went up. 
Alas ! my little deposit of fifty pounds, which was 
to secure a few masses after my death, where is 
it? And poor old Hannah? Well, she’ll have it 
all after my death, and that will make her doubly 
careful, and me — doubly miserable. 

“Now,” I said to Father Letheby, as he daintily 
balanced his spoon over his cup, and I leisurely 
stirred the sugar in, — well, no matter, “I don’t 
like that coffee. It is not sociable. It makes you 
too cautious, while we, under the potent and ex- 
panding influence of native manufacture, are in- 
clined to develop. Now, if you want to succeed 
in life, give up that Turkish drug and do what all 
your predecessors did.” 

“ I ’m too Irish for that,” he said, rather para- 
doxically, I thought. “ I ’m afraid I should be 
talking about my ancestors, and asking some one 
to be good enough to tread on the tail of my 
coat.” 

He knew well that I did not wish to interfere 
with his tastes. 

“ Well, however, think kindly of us who cling to 
old traditions. We too had our day.” 

I was silent, thinking of old times. 

“ You never slept in a lime-kiln, I presume,” 
said I, starting from a long reverie. 

“ God forbid,” he said with a start. 

“ Well, I did. It happened in this way. It was 


I 20 


My New Curate 

nearly ten o’clock at night when I arrived at 
the door of the old pastor, to whose care I was 
committed on my first mission. I knocked, and 
knocked, and knocked. No answer. T was all 

the same. Father L had but one room and 

the kitchen; and that room was parlor, library, 
drawing-room, bedroom, and all. I dismissed the 
jarvey, left my portmanteau at the door, and wan- 
dered out into the night. I dared not rouse up the 
farmers around. It was the time of the White- 
boys, and I might get a charge of shot or a thrust 
of a pike for my pains. The night was cold and 
starry. And after wandering about for some time 
I came to a kiln. The men — the lime-burners — 
were not long gone, and the culm was still burn- 
ing. I went in. The warmth was most grateful. 
I lay down quietly, took out my beads, and whilst 
saying the Rosary I fell fast asleep. I awoke to 
hear: ‘Come, get out of this.’ And, then, ‘ Good 
God ! it is a priest.’ Ah ! well, how times have 
changed ! But think kindly of us old men. We 
too have borne the burden and the heat, — the 
pondns diei et cestusy 

A deep silence fell upon us both, broken only 
by the crackling of the turf and wood fire, I busy 
with the past, and he sunk in his own reflections. 
At length I said : — 

“Would I trouble you to hand me down that 
‘Pars Verna’ with the morocco cover? Thanks! 
This little time-stained book saw some curious 


I 2 I 


Over the Walnuts 

scenes. It was my companion in many a rough 
adventure. In these old times it was quite a com- 
mon experience for myself to leave home at six 
o’clock in the morning so as to be at the station- 
house by seven. By the way, you did murder the 
names of the mountain town-lands when calling 
the stations last Sunday. You must try and get 
the ‘ bloss * of the Irish on your tongue. Well, 
we usually heard confessions from seven to three 
o’clock in the afternoon, with just an interval for 
breakfast — ” 

“ Pardon me, sir, but do you mean to say the 
people remained fasting and received Holy Com- 
munion at three o’clock?” 

“ Yes, my dear young man, that was an every- 
day experience. I remember a mission that was 

given in the town of N , where I was curate in 

’54, the year the first great missions were given by 
Fathers Bernard and Petcherine. One evening, 
dead tired after a continuous day’s work, I was 
crossing the church toward the sacristy, when a 
huge shaggy countryman stopped me. It was 
just half-past ten o’clock. ‘ I ’m for Communion, 
your reverence/ said he. I was a little irritable 
and therefore a little sarcastic at the time. ‘ It is 
usually the habit of Catholics to receive Holy 
Communion fasting,’ said I, never dreaming but 
that the man was after his supper. ‘For the mat- 
ter of that, your reverence,’ said he, ‘ I could have 
received Communion any minit these last three 


12 2 


My New Curate 

days ; for God is my witness, neither bite nor sup 
has crossed my lips, not even a spoonful of wather.’ 
But to come back. Dear me, how easy it is to get 
me off the rail ! After three o’clock I used to start 
out for my sick-calls ; and, will you believe me, I 
was often out all night, going from one cabin to 
another, sometimes six or seven miles apart ; and 
I often rode home in the morning when the larks 
were singing above the sod and the sun was high 
in the sky. Open that quarto.” 

He did. The leaves were as black as the cover, 
and clung together, tattered as they were. 

“ The rain and the wind of Ireland,” I said. “ It 
was no easy job to read Matins, with one hand 
clutching the reins and the pommel of the saddle, 
and the other holding that book in a mountain 
hurricane. But you are not a Manichaean, are 
you? ” 

He looked at me questioningly. 

“ I mean you don’t see Mephistopheles rising in 
that gentle cloud of steam from my glass? ” 

“ Oh no,” he said ; “ you have your tastes, and I 
mine. Both are equally innocuous. But the fact 
is,” he said, after a pause, “ I cannot touch wine 
or spirits, because I want to work at night, and 
I must have all my faculties clear.” 

“ Then you are working hard. God bless you ! 
I saw your notes the other day. But don’t forget 
your Greek. French is the language of diplo- 
macy, Italian the language of love, German the 


Over the Walnuts 123 

language of philosophy, English the language of 
commerce, Latin the language of the Church, 
Greek the language of the scholar, and Hebrew 
the language of God. But I remember it gave a 
new zest to my studies long ago, when I read 
somewhere that our Divine Lord spoke Greek, at 
least amongst the learned, for Greek in the East 
was what Latin has been in the West.” 

“Yes, but ’t is pitiful,” he replied, with a blush; 
“ I did get a gold medal from all Ireland in Greek ; 
and yet, when I took up such an easy book as 
Homer the other day, why, ’twas all Greek to me.” 

Here Hannah broke in, opening the door. 

“Won’t you take another cup of coffee, sir?” 
Awaiting the reply, Hannah poked up the fire and 
sent the blazes dancing merrily up the chimney. 
Then she raised the flame of the lamp, and did 
a great many other unnecessary things; but the 
kitchen is lonesome. 

“ Well, Hannah,” said Father Letheby enthusias- 
tically, “ I will. You have made me a confirmed 
teetotaler. I would not even think of punch when 
your fragrant coffee is before me.” 

“ Wisha, then, sir, but there ’s more life in the 
little drop of sperrits. However, your reverence 
is welcome to whatever you like in this house.” 

This is not the first time Hannah has assumed a 
tone of proprietorship in my little establishment. 
Well, no matter. It is our Irish communism, — 
very like that of the Apostles, too. 


124 My New Curate 

“You must not be disheartened about that,” I 
said. “ I read some time ago that no less a person 
than Lord Dufferin declared that, although he had 
taken a degree in Greek, he could not read a line 
of it in after years till he had learned it all over 
again, and in his own way.” 

“ I am delighted to hear that,” said Father 
Letheby. 

“And w r hen you do master your Greek,” I said, 
“ use your knowledge where it will profit you 
most.” 

He waited. 

“On the Greek Fathers. Believe me, there is 
more poetry, science, philosophy, and theology 
there than in all modern literature, since Shake- 
speare. We don’t know it. The Anglican di- 
vines do. I suspect that many a fairly sculptured 
sermon and learned treatise was cut from these 
quarries.” 

I suppose the poor fellow was weary from all 
the lecturing. Indeed, I think too his mind had 
rather a practical cast ; for he began to ply me 
with questions about the parish that fairly aston- 
ished me. 

“ Did Pat Herlihy’s big boy make his First 
Communion? What about establishing a First 
Confesssion class? He heard there was a night- 
dance at the cross-roads, half-ways to Moydore. 
Why don’t the Moydore priests stop it? Did I 
know Winifred Lane, a semi-imbecile up in the 


Over the Walnuts 125 

mountains? He did not like one of the teachers. 
He thought him disrespectful. What was the cause 
of the coolness between the Learys and the Sheas? 
Was it the way that one of the Sheas, about sixty 
years ago, served on a jury, at which some disrepu- 
table Leary was convicted ? What about a bridge 
over that mountain torrent at Slieveogue? He 
had written to the surveyor. Did I think the nuns 
in Galway would take a postulant? He heard 
that there was a sister home from New Zealand 
who was taking out young girls — ” 

“ My dear young friend,” I said, when I had 
tried to answer imperfectly this catechism, “ I 
know you are a saint, and therefore endowed 
with the privilege of bilocation; but I did not 
know that you could dictate to six amanuenses at 
the same time, like Caesar or Suarez.” 

“ Oh, by the way,” he said, putting up his note- 
book, “ I was near forgetting. With your permis- 
sion, sir, I intend to put up a little crib at Christ- 
mas. Now, the roof is leaking badly over St. 
Joseph’s Chapel. If you allow me, I shall put 
Jem Deady on the roof. He says you know him 
well, and can recommend him, and there are a few 
pounds in my hands from the Living Rosary.” 

It was true. I knew Jem Deady very well, as a 
confirmed dipsomaniac, who took the Total Absti- 
nence Pledge for life regularly every three months. 
I also knew that that leak over St. Joseph’s Chapel 
had been a steady source of income to Jem for 


126 My New Curate 

the last ten years. Somehow it was an incurable 
malady, a kind of stone and mortar scrofula that 
was always breaking out, and ever resisting the 
science of this amiable physician. Sometimes 
it was “ ground-damp,” sometimes the “ weeping 
wall”; and there were dread dissertations on barge 
courses and string courses, but there the evil was, 
ugly and ineradicable. 

“ I dare say, Jem told you that I had been put- 
ting cobblers from the village every winter for 
the last ten years on that roof and that he alone 
possesses the secret that will make that wall a 
‘thing of beauty and a joy forever’?” 

“Well, indeed, he said something of the kind. 
But I have taken a fancy to the fellow. He sings 
like an angel, and since the Concert he enter- 
tains me every night with a variety of melodies, 
amongst which I think ‘ Her Bright Smile Haunts 
Me Still ’ is his masterpiece.” 

“ He does not sing ‘ Two Lovely Black Eyes’? ” 
I asked. 

“No,” said Father Letheby, seriously. 

“I think his wife sings that,” I said, as Father 
Letheby rose to go. 

“ By the way,” I said, as I helped him on with 
his great coat in the hall, for he is one for whom 
I would make any sacrifice, “ how have you ac- 
quired such a minute knowledge of my parish- 
ioners in such a short time?” 

“Well,” said he, tying a silk handkerchief around 


Over the Walnuts 127 

his neck, “ I was once at a military review in Eng- 
land, having been invited by some Catholic offi- 
cers. I stood rather near the Duke of Cambridge. 
And this struck me. The Duke called out, ‘Who 
commands that company ? ’ ‘I, sir.’ ‘ What is the 

name of the third man on the right? Married or 
single? Term of service? Character? Trade?’ 
And I was utterly amazed at the accurate infor- 
mation of the officers. Now, I often thought, if 
our great Commander-in-Chief questioned us in 
that manner, could we reply with the same pre- 
cision? And I determined to know, as soon as 
possible, the name, history, and position of every 
man, woman, and child in this parish.” 

“ And you have succeeded,” I said admiringly. 
“You know them better than I, who have spent 
thirty years amongst them. But” — I could not 
resist the temptation of a little lecture — “if you 
are asked, accept no responsibility in money mat- 
ters; and if two cocks are fighting down the street, 
and consequently diplomatic courtesies are sus- 
pended between the neighbors, I would not, if I 
were you, trouble much to ascertain which of the 
belligerents had ethical and moral right on his side ; 
and if Mrs. Gallagher, by pure accident, should 
happen to be throwing out a pail of particularly 
dirty water just at the psychological moment when 
Mrs. Casey is passing her door ; and if the tailor- 
made gown of the latter is thereby desecrated, and 
you see a sudden eclipse of the sun, and hear 


128 My New Curate 

the rumble of distant thunder, don’t throw aside 
your ^Fschylus to see the ‘Furies’; and if Mrs. 
Deady — ” 

“Thank you! thank you, Father,” he said, ab- 
ruptly, “ never fear. T will be all right ! ” 

I closed the door on his fine, manly figure, and 
went back to my arm-chair, murmuring: — 

“ TlaOrjfiara — fiaOrj^ara. So shall it be to the 
end, O Father of history ! ” 


CHAPTER XI 


BESIDE THE SINGING RIVER 

Father Letheby was coming home a few nights 
ago, a little after twelve o’clock, from a hurried sick- 
call, and he came down by the cliffs ; for, as he said, 
he likes to see the waters when the Almighty flings 
his net over their depths, and then every sea-hillock 
is a star, and there is a moon in every hollow of the 
waves. As he skirted along the cliff that frowns 
down into the valleys of the sea on the one hand, 
and the valleys of the firs and poplars on the other, 
he thought he heard some voices deep down in the 
shadows, and he listened. Very soon the harsh 
rasp of a command came to his ears, and he heard : 
“ 'Shun! * verse arms etc. He listened very atten- 
tively, and the tramp of armed men echoed down 
the darkness; and he thought he saw the glint of 
steel here and there where the moonbeams struck 
the trees. 

“ It was a horrible revelation,” he said, “ that 
here in this quiet place we were nursing revolution, 
and had some secret society in full swing amongst 
us. But then, as the little bit of history brought 
up the past, I felt the tide of feeling sweeping 
9 


130 My New Curate 

through me, and all the dread enthusiasm of the 
race woke within me : — 

‘ There beside the singing river 
That dark mass of men are seen, 

Far above their shining weapons 
Hung their own immortal green ! ’ 

But this is a bad business, sir, for soul and body. 
What’s to be done? ” 

“A bad business, indeed,” I echoed. “But 
worse for soul than body. These poor fellows will 
amuse themselves playing at soldiers, and probably 
catching pneumonia; and there ’twill end. You 
did n’t see any policemen about ? ” 

“ No. They could be hiding unknown to me.” 

“ Depend upon it, they were interested spectators 
of the midnight evolutions. I know there are 
some fellows in the village in receipt of secret 
service money, and all these poor boys’ names are 
in the Castle archives. But what is worse, this 
means anti-clericalism, and consequently abstention 
from Sacraments, and a long train of evils besides. 
It must be handled gently.” 

“ You don’t mean to say, sir,” he replied, “that 
that Continental poison has eaten its way in 
Ireland ? ” 

“ Not to a large extent; but it is there. There 
is no use in burying our heads in the sands and 
pretending not to see. But we must act judi- 
ciously. A good surgeon never acts hastily, — 
never hurries over an operation. Lente t — lente .” 


Beside the Singing River 1 3 i 

I saw a smile faintly rippling around the corners 
of his mouth. But I was afraid he might rush 
matters here, and it would be dangerous. But , 
where’s the use? He understood but one way of 
acting, — to grapple with an abuse and strangle it. 

“ You drop stones,” he used to say, “ and they 
turn up armed men.” 

How he learned their place of meeting I don’t 
know. But Sunday afternoon was a favorite time 
for the rebels; and the coursing match on the 
black hills and the rabbit hunt in the plantations 
were only preliminaries to more important and 
secret work. Whether by accident or design, 
Father Letheby stumbled on such a meeting about 
four o’clock one Sunday afternoon. A high ditch 
and a strong palisade of fir trees hid him from 
sight, and he was able to hear a good deal, and 
had no scruple in playing the listener. This is 
what he heard. The village tailor, lame in one leg, 
and familiarly known as “ Hop-and-go-one,” was 
the orator : — 

“Fellow countrymen, de time for action has 
come. From ind to ind of the land, the down- 
trodden serfs of Ireland are rising in their millions. 
Too long have dey been juped by false pretences; 
too long have the hirelings of England chated and 
decaved them. We know now what a shimmera , 1 
what a fraud, was Home Rule. Our counthry 
has been dragged at the tail of English par- 
i Chimera. 


132 My New Curate 

ties, who were purshuing their own interests. But 
’t is all past. No more constitutional agitation, 
no more paceful struggle. Lead will do what 
fine speeches did n’t. And if the black militia, 
wid dere ordhers from Rome, attimpt this time 
to interfere, we know what answer to give dem. 
De West’s awake, and ’t is n’t priests will set us 
to sleep agin — ” 

At this juncture the orator was caught by the 
nape of the neck, and lifted bodily off the turf 
ditch, which was his forum. When he looked 
around, and saw who was his captor, he shrieked 
for mercy; and Father Letheby, dropping him, as 
one would drop a rat, he scurried off as fast as his 
lame leg would permit, whilst the priest, turning 
round to the stupefied boys, warned them of their 
folly and madness : — 

“ God knows, boys,” he said, “ I pity you. You 
are bent on a desperate and foolish course, the 
end of which no man can foresee. I know it is 
useless to reason with you on the score of danger ; 
but I warn you that you are violating the laws of 
God and the Church, and that no blessing comes 
from such action. And yet,” he continued, pla- 
cing his hand in the breast-pocket of his coat, and 
drawing out a blue official paper, “ this may con- 
vince you of your folly ; at least, it may convince 
you of the fact that there is a traitor and informer 
in your midst. Who he is I leave yourselves to 
conjecture ! ” 


Beside the Singing River 133 

He read out slowly the name of every young 
man that had been sworn in that secret society in 
the parish. The young men listened sullenly, and 
swore angrily between their teeth. But they could 



“ The orator was caught by the nape of the neck.” 

not deny their betrayal. They were vexed, hum- 
bled, disgraced; but they had to make some 
defence. 

“ The priests are always agin the people,” said 
one keen-looking fellow, who had been abroad. 

“That’s an utter falsehood,” said Father Lethe- 
by, “ and you know it. You know that priests and 


134 My New Curate 

people for seven hundred years have fought side 
by side the battle of Ireland’s freedom from civil 
and religious disabilities. I heard your own father 
say how well he remembered the time when the 
friar stole into the farmyard at night, disguised 
as a pedlar, and he showed me the cavern down 
there by the sea-shore where Mass was said, and 
the fishermen heard it, as they pretended to haul in 
their nets.” 

“Thrue enough for you, your reverence,” said a 
few others ; “ ’t is what our fathers, and our fathers’ 
fathers, have tould us.” 

“And now,” continued Father Letheby, “look 
at the consequences of your present folly. Possible 
imprisonment in the dungeons of Portland and 
Dartmoor ; exile to America, enforced by the 
threats of prosecution ; and the sense of hostility 
to the Church, for you know you are breaking the 
laws. You dare not go to confession, for you 
cannot receive absolution ; you are a constant 
terror to your mothers and sisters — and all at the 
dictation of a few scoundrels, who are receiving 
secret service money from the government, and a 
few newspapers that are run by Freemasons and 
Jews.” 

“ Ah, now, your reverence,” said one of the boys, 
a litterateur, “ you are drawing the long bow. How 
could Irish newspapers be run by Freemasons and 
Jews ? ” 

“Would you be surprised to hear,” said Father 


Beside the Singing River 135 

Letheby, “ that all the great Continental papers are 
the property of Freemasons and Jews; that all the 
rancor and bitterness stirred up against the Church 
for the past fifty years has been their work ; that 
the anti-clerical feeling in Germany and in France 
has been carefully originated and fostered by them ; 
that hatred of the Holy See is their motto ; and 
that they have got into Ireland. You can see the 
cloven foot in the virulent anti-religious and anti- 
clerical articles that you read by the light of the 
fire at the forge ; and yet, the very prayer-books 
you used at Mass to-day, and the beads that rolled 
through your mothers’ fingers, have been manufac- 
tured by them. But the Irish are always fools, — 
never more so than now.” 

It was a magnificent leap of imagination on 
Father Letheby’s part, — that which attributed to 
Jews and Freemasons the manufacture of beads 
and prayer-books on the one hand, and anti-clerical- 
ism on the other. Yet there was truth in what he 
had said. Indeed, there were many indications, 
as I could point out to him to his surprise, which 
proved that the anti-Catholic agencies here in Ire- 
land were pursuing exactly the same tactics which 
had led to the extinguishing of the faith in parts of 
France and Italy, — namely, the dissemination o / 
pornographic literature. They know well that 
there is but one thing that can destroy Irish faith, 
and that is the dissemination of ideas subversive of 
Catholic morality. Break down the earthworks 


136 My New Curate 

that guard the purity of the nation, and the citadel 
of faith is taken. He was very silent all that 
evening, as I notice all Irish priests grow grave 
wherf this awful fact, which is under their very 
eyes, is made plain to them. It is so easy to look 
at things without seeing them. Then, as the full 
revelation of this new diablerie dawned upon him, 
he grew very angry. I think this is the most 
charming thing about my curate, that he is a 
thorough hater of everything cunning and con- 
cealed, and breaks out into noble philippics against 
whatever is foul and vicious. But I kndw he will 
be now on the alert ; and God help any unfortunate 
that dares to peddle unwholesome wares under the 
necklaces and matches of his basket ! 

The tailor came duly to report Father Letheby 
for the drastic treatment he had received. He was 
rather too emphatic in demanding his immediate 
removal, and hinting at suspension. In lieu of that 
satisfaction, he would immediately institute pro- 
ceedings in the Court of Queen’s Bench for assault 
and battery, and place the damages at several 
thousand pounds. I listened to him patiently, 
then hinted that an illiterate fellow like him should 
not be making treasonable speeches. He bridled 
up at the word “ illiterate,” and repudiated the vile 
insinuation. He could read and write as well as 
any priest in Connaught. 

“ But you cannot read your own writing?” I 
said, tentatively. 


Beside the Singing River 137 

“Could n’t he? Try him ! ” 

I thrust under his eyes his last letter to the sub- 
inspector of the district I thought he would get 
a fit of apoplexy. 

“Now, you scoundrel,” I said, folding the letter 
and placing it beyond reach, “ I forgive you all 
your deception and treason. What Father Letheby 
has got in store for you I cannot say. But I ’ll 
never forgive you, you most unscientific and un- 
mathematical artist, for having given me so many 
shocking misfits lately, until I have looked like a 
scarecrow in a cornfield ; even now you are smell- 
ing like a distillery. And tell me, you ruffian, 
what right had you to say at Mrs. Haley’s public 
house that I was ‘ thauto — thauto — gogical ’ in 
my preaching? If I, with all the privileges of 
senility, chose to repeat myself, to drive the truths 
of Christianity into the numskulls of this pre- 
Adamite village, what is that to you, — you ninth 
part of a man? Was it not the immortal Homer 
that declared that every tailor — ” 

“ For God’s sake, spare me, your reverence, and 
I ’ll never do it again.” 

“ Do you promise to cut my garments mathe- 
matically in the future?” 

“ I do, your reverence.” He spoke as emphati- 
cally as if he were renewing his baptismal vows 
at a great mission. 

“ Do you promise to speak respectfully of me 
and my sermons for the future?” 


1 38 My New Curate 

“ I do, your reverence.” 

“ Now, go. Exi, erumpe> evade , or I ’ll turn you 
into a Sartor Resartus. I hand you over now, as 
the judge hands the culprit, to Father Letheby. 
Don’t be too much surprised at eventualities. Do 
you know, did you ever hear, what the women of 
Marblehead did to a certain Floyd Ireson? Well, 
go ask Father Letheby. He’ll tell you. And 
I shall be much surprised if the women of Kil- 
ronan are much behind their sisters of Marblehead 
in dealing with such a scoundrel as you.” 

I proposed this conundrum to Father Letheby 
that same evening : “ Why is it considered a greater 
crime to denounce and correct an evil than to com- 
mit it?” He looked at me as if he doubted my 
sanity. I put it in a more euphemistic form : 
“Why is success always the test of merit? To 
come down from the abstract to the concrete, 
Why is a gigantic swindler a great financier, and a 
poor fellow that steals a loaf of bread a felon and 
a thief? Why is a colossal liar a great diplomatist, 
and a petty prevaricator a base and ignoble fraud ? 
Why is Napoleon a hero, and that wretched tramp 
an ever to be dreaded murderer? Why is Bis- 
marck called great, though he crushed the French 
into a compost of blood and rags, ground them by 
taxation into paupers, jested at dying children, and 
lied most foully, and his minor imitators are dubbed 
criminals and thieves? Look here, now, young 


Beside the Singing River 139 

man ! If you, by a quiet, firm, indomitable deter- 
mination succeed in crushing out and stamping 
out forever this secret society here, it will redound 
to your infinite credit in all men’s eyes. But mark, 
if with all your energy and zeal you fail, or if you 
pass into a leaderette in some Freemason journal, 
and your zeal is held up as fanaticism and your 
energy as imprudence, the whole world will regard 
you as a hot-headed young fool, and will ask with 
rage and white lips, What is the Bishop doing in 
allowing these young men to take the reins into 
their own hands and drive the chariot of the sun? 
It is as great a crime to be a young man to-day as 
it was in the days of Pitt. Nothing can redeem 
the stigma and the shame but success. Of course, 
all this sounds very pagan, and I am not identify- 
ing myself with it. I believe with that dear bare- 
footed philosopher, St. Francis, who is to me more 
than fifty Aristotles, as a Kempis is more than fifty 
Platos, that a man is just what he is in the eyes of 
God, and no more. But I am only submitting to 
you this speculative difficulty to keep your mind 
from growing fallow these winter evenings. And 
don’t be in a hurry to answer it. I ’ll give you 
six months ; and then you ’ll say, like the inter- 
locutor in a Christy Minstrel entertainment: ‘I 
give it up.’ ” 


CHAPTER XII 


CHURCH IMPROVEMENTS 

I AM afraid Father Letheby is getting irritable. 
Perhaps he is studying too hard, and I don’t spare 
him there, for he has the makings of a bishop in 
him ; or perhaps it is that wretched coffee, — but 
he is losing that beautiful equanimity and enthusi- 
asm which made him so attractive. 

“ I cannot understand these people,” he said to 
me, soon after his adventure with the “ boys.” 
“ Such a compound of devotion and irreverence, 
meanness and generosity, cunning and childlike 
openness, was never seen. When I give Holy 
Communion with you, sir, on Sunday morning, 
my heart melts at the seraphic tenderness with 
which they approach the altar. That striking of 
the breast, that eager look on their faces, and that 
* Cead mile failte, O Thierna ! ’ 1 make me bless 
God for such a people ; but then they appear to 
be waiting for the last words of the De Profundis , 
to jump up and run from the church as if in a 
panic. I can understand now how extemplo came 
to mean in a hurry , for if the roof were falling they 
could not rush from the building more promptly. 

1 “ A hundred thousand welcomes, Lord.” 


Church Improvements 14.1 

Then an old woman will haggle over sixpence 
in buying a pair of chickens, and then come to 
you the following day and offer you in a stocking 
all she had saved in this world. I give them up. 
They are unintelligible.” 

From which I perceive that our good school- 
master, experience, is trying the rod on this most 
hopeful and promising pupil. 

“ I hope you did not perceive any such abrupt 
and sudden contrasts in your protege, Jem Deady,” 
I said. “ He has realized your ideas of a nine- 
teenth century Goban Saor.” 1 

He laughed loudly. 

“ There ’s no use in talking,” he said. I notice 
he is coming down gradually from his polished 
periods to our village colloquialisms. 

“ Thou shalt lower to their level.” God for- 
bid ! ’T was bad enough with myself; but with 
this bright, accomplished fellow, ’t would be 
too bad. He then told me with delight and 
chagrin, rage and laughter, his experiences with 
Jem. 

It would appear that he made a solemn contract 
with this architect to stop the leak and restore the 
wall in St. Josephs' Chapel for twenty-five shillings. 
“ ’T was too little/* said Jem, “but what can you 
do with a gintleman that does n’t know a trowel 
from a spade.” All materials were to be found by 
the contractor. 


1 A famous Irish architect. 


142 My New Curate 

On Monday afternoon there was a knock at 
Father Letheby’s door, and Jem was announced. 

“Well, Jem,” said Father Letheby, cheerfully, 
“getting on with the job?” 

“Yes, your reverence, getting on grand,” said 
Jem. “ But I come to you about the laddher.” 

“The-e ladder?” echoed Father Letheby. 

“Yes, your reverence,” echoed Jem confidentially, 
“ the laddher to get up on the roof, you know.” 

“ But I understood you to say that you were 
getting through with this little job.” 

“ Oh, of course, your reverence, we ’re getting 
through the preliminaries ; but I must get on the 
roof, you know.” 

“I presume so,” said Father Letheby, a little 
nettled, “ and why don’t you go there? ” 

“ Does your reverence take me for an aigle, and 
want me to fly? ” 

“ Well, not exactly,” said Father Letheby, with 
a slight touch of flattery and sarcasm, “ I am more 
disposed to take you for a nightingale ! ” 

“Well, then, your reverence,” said Jem, melting 
under the happy allusion, “ a gintleman of your grate 
expayrince in building should know that, of all 
things else, a laddher is the wan thing necessary.” 

“Then you expect me to construct a ladder 
for your convenience?” 

“ Oh, not at all, your reverence ; but if you 
gave me a little note up to the ‘ Great House,’ I ’d 
have it down while you ’d be saying ‘ trapsticks.’ ” 


Church Improvements 143 

There were some reasons why it was not at all 
desirable that he should ask favors from the 
“ Great House ” ; but there was no help, and Jem 
got the letter. 

“Now, this is all you require,” said Father 
Letheby, with determination. 

“ That is all,” said Jem. “ Do you think I ’d 
be throubling your reverence every minit. Long 
life to your reverence. May you be spared long 
in the parish.” 

About four o’clock that afternoon, Father 
Letheby was startled by a sudden commotion in 
the village. All the dogs were barking, and there 
are as many dogs in Kilronan as in Constanti- 
nople, and they are just as vicious ; all the women 
were at the doors, rubbing their hands in their 
aprons ; and the village loafers were all turned 
towards where a solemn procession was moving 
through the street First came a gang of young- 
sters, singing, “ Sure, We ’re the Boys of Wex- 
ford,” then a popular ditty ; then came two labor- 
ers, dragging along a ladder with as much show 
of expended energy as if it were a piece of 
heavy ordnance ; then the cart on which the 
ladder was placed ; then two more laborers be- 
hind, making desperate efforts to second the ardu- 
ous endeavors of their mates in front; then a 
squadron of bare-legged girls, trying to keep the 
hair out of their eyes ; and finally, the captain of 
the expedition, Jem Deady, leisurely walking 


144 My New Curate 

along, with his hands in his pockets, a wheaten 
straw in his mouth, whilst he looked from cabin 
to cabin to receive the admiration of the villagers. 
It was expressed in various ways : — 

“ Wisha, thin, Jem, ’t is you ’re the divil painted.” 

“ Where is he taking it? ” 

“ To the chapel.” 

“ Wisha, thin, I thought the priests had some 
sinse.” 

“ Whisht, 'uman, he ’s come around the new 
cojutor and got a job.” 

“Th’ ould job?” 

“ Th’ ould job ! ” 

“ Wisha, God help his poor wife now. ’T is 
she ’ll suffer,” etc. 

The men made desperate efforts as they passed 
Father Letheby’s windows. He looked on hope- 
lessly, as you look at a charade of which you have 
not got the key. 

At six o’clock there was a deputation at the 
door, consisting of four laborers and the owner of 
the cart. 

“ We come for our day’s hire, your reverence,” 
said the foreman, unabashed. 

“ Oh, indeed,” said Father Letheby, “I am not 
aware that you are in my employment.” 

“We dhrew the laddher down from the Great 
House to the chapel ; and I may tell your rever- 
ence ’twas a tough job. I would n’t do it again 
for five shillings.” 


Church Improvements 145 

“ Nor I, ayther.” 

“ Nor I, ayther.” 

“ Nor I, ayther, begor.” 

“ Well, look here,” said Father Letheby, “ I ’m 
not going to submit to this infamous extortion. 
I did n’t employ you, and I acknowledge no re- 
sponsibility whatsoever.” 

“That manes you won’t pay us, your rever- 
ence?’’ said the foreman, in a free translation. 

“ Precisely,” said Father Letheby, closing the 
door abruptly. 

He heard them murmuring and threatening 
outside, but took no notice of them. Later in the 
evening he took his usual stroll. He found these 
fellows loafing around the public house. They 
had been denouncing him vigorously, and occa- 
sionally a Parthian shaft came after him : — 

“ Begor, ’t is quare, sure enough.” 

“ Begor, we thought the priests could n’t do any 
wrong.” 

But when he turned the corner he met a good 
deal of sympathy : — 

“ Wisha, begor, ’t is your reverence was wanted 
to tache these blackguards a lesson.” 

“ Wisha, ’twas God sent you,” etc., etc. 

Now, one shilling would have given these 
fellows lashings of porter, and secured their 
everlasting fealty and an unlimited amount of 
popularity. I told him so. 

“Never,” he said, drawing back his head, and 


10 


146 My New Curate 

with flashing eyes, “ I shall never lend myself to 
so demoralizing a practice. We must get these 
people out of the mire.” 

The next day, he thought he was bound to see 
how Jem was progressing with his contract. He 
went down to the little church and passed into the 
sacristy, whence he had a clear view of the roof of 
St. Joseph’s Chapel. Jem was there, leisurely 
doing nothing, and on the graveyard wall were 
eight men, young and old, surveying the work 
and offering sundry valuable suggestions. They 
took this shape : — 

“ Wisha, Jem, take the world aisy. You ’re kill- 
ing yerself, man.” 

“What a pity he ’s lost his wice (voice); sure 
’t was he was able to rise a song.” 

“ Dey say,” interjected a young ragamuffin, 
“ dat Fader Letheby is going to take Simon 
Barry into his new choir. Simon is a tinner, and 
Jem is only a bannitone.” 

“ Hould your tongue, you spalpeen,” said a 
grown man, “Jem can sing as well as twinty 
Simons, dat is if he could only wet his whistle.” 

“ Thry dat grand song, Jem, ‘ ’T is Years Since 
Last We Met.’ ” 

“ No, no,” said the chorus, “ give us ‘ Larry 
McGee.’ ” 

“ Wisha, byes, would n’t wan of ye run over to 
Mrs. Haley’s for a pint. ’T is mighty dhry up 
here.” 


Church Improvements 147 

“ Here ye are,” said the chorus, chipping in 
and making up the requisite “ tuppence.” “ Don’t 
be long about it, ye young ruffian.” 

“But what about the pledge, Jem?” asked a 
conscientious spectator. “ Shure your time is n’t 
up yet.” 

“ ’T is up long ago,” cried another. “ ’T was 
three months yesterday since he took the pledge.” 

“Byes,” said Jem, who was troubled at the 
possible scandal he was about to give, “ I prom- 
ised not to dhrink in a public house; and shure 
this is n’t a public house, glory be to God ! ” 

They took off their hats reverently; and then 
the pint came, was taken up the ladder with great 
care and solemnity, and a few minutes after, 
Father Letheby heard: — 

“What is it going to be, byes? I’ve left me 
music on the pianney ! ” 

“ ‘ Larry McGee ! ’ ‘ Larry McGee ! ’ No. No. 

* ’T is Yares Since Last .’ No. No. * The 

Byes of Wexford.’ ” 

“ Byes, I think the majority is in favor of 
1 Larry McGee.’ — Here ’s to yer health ! ” 

And then came floating from the roof in various 
quavers and semiquavers and grace-notes the fol- 
lowing, which is all Father Letheby can remember. 

“I — in the town of Kilkinny lived Larry McGee, 

Oh — oh the divil’s own boy at divarshion was he ; 

He — he had a donkey, a pig, but he had n’t a wife, 
His cabin was dreary, and wretched his life.” 


148 My New Curate 

Then the notes came wavering and fitful, as the 
wind took them up, and carried them struggling 
over the moorland; and all that Father Letheby 
could hear was about a certain Miss Brady, who 
was reared up a lady, and who was requested to 
accept the name of Mrs. McGee. This suit must 
have been successful, because, as the wind lulled 
down, the words came clearly : — 

“ Sure the chickens were roasted, — the praties was biled, 
They were all in their jackets, for fear they ’d be spiled ; 
And the neighbors came flockin’, for to fling up the stockin’, 
And dance at the weddin’ of Larry McGee.” 

It was interesting; but Father Letheby’s tem- 
per was rising with the undulations of the song. 
He came out into the graveyard, and there was a 
stampede of the spectators. Jem was lifting the 
porter to his lips, and looked down calmly and 
philosophically at the young priest. 

“Mr. Deady,” said the latter, putting on his 
strongest accent, “ I do not think I engaged you 
to entertain the village with your vocal powers, 
much as I esteem them. I engaged you to work, 
— to do honest work for honest wages.” 

“Begor,” said the unabashed Jem, “if I was a 
Turk, or a Armaynian, I ’d be allowed to ate my 
dinner.” 

“ But this is not your dinner hour ! ” 

“ Twelve to wan is the dinner hour, except when 
I dines at the Grate House, whin, for my con- 
vaynience, they puts it off till aight.” 


Church Improvements 149 

It was a sly cut at Father Letheby, and he 
felt it. 

“ And your dinner, I presume, is the usual quan- 
tity of filthy porter, such as I see represented in 
your hand.” 

“It is, your reverence, excep’ whin I dines 
with the Captain. Den we haves roast beef and 
champagne.” 

All this Father Letheby told me, with a look of 
puzzled anger, and with many exclamations. 

“ I never saw such a people; I’ll never under- 
stand them,” etc. His magnificent impetuosity 
again. 

“ Tell me,” I said, for he had given me ntost 
cordially the privilege of speaking freely, “ do you 
make your meditation regularly?” 

“ Well, I do,” he replied, “ in a kind of way.” 

“ Because,” I went on to say, “ apart from the 
spiritual advantages it affords, that closing of our 
eyes daily and looking steadily into ourselves is a 
wonderfully soothing process. It is solitude — and 
solitude is the mother country of the strong. It 
is astonishing what an amount of irritation is 
poured from external objects through the windows 
of the soul, — on the retina, where they appear to 
be focused, and then turned like a burning-glass on 
the naked nerves of the soul. To shut one’s eyes 
and turn the thoughts inward is like sleep, and, 
like sleep, gives strength and peace. Now, would 
you accept from me a subject of meditation?” 


150 My New Curate 

“ Willingly, sir,” he said, like a child. 

“All that you want to be perfect is to curb your 
impetuosity. I notice it everywhere. Probably it 
is natural; probably it is accentuated by your 
residence in feverish cities. Now, I have a right 
to give an advice on this matter, for I got it and 
took it myself. When I was as young as you I 
said Mass in twenty minutes, and said the Office 
in forty minutes. How? Because I slurred over 
words, spoke to the Almighty as a ballad-singer, 
and for a few years went through these awful and 
sacred duties without ever resting or dwelling on 
their sublime signification. One day a holy old 
priest said to me : — 

“‘Father, would you kindly give me an easy 
translation of the first stanza of the hymn for 
Terce? ’ 

“I was completely at sea. He saw it. 

“ ‘ Ah, never mind. But what means f actus sum , 
sicut uter in pruina ? You say it every day 
nearly.’ 

“ I could n’t tell him. 

“ ‘ Herodii domus dux est e or uni' What is that ? ” 

“I made a feeble attempt here, and translated 
boldly, ‘ The house of Herod is their leader.’ 

“ The venerable man looked smilingly at me ; 
and then asked me to look up my Bible. I did, 
and found that I had been speaking an unknown 
language to Almighty God for years, and I called 
it prayer.” 


Church Improvements 1 5 1 

Father Letheby looked humbled. He said : 
“True, Father, I fear; and if you had to say the 
entire Office, commencing Matins at eleven o’clock 
at night; or if you had to crush Vespers and 
Compline, under the light of a street lamp, into 
the ten minutes before twelve o’clock, you ’d see 
the absurdity of the whole thing more clearly. A 
strictly conscientious confrere of mine in England 
used always commence Prime about ten o’clock at 
night; but then he always lighted a candle, for 
consistency, before he uttered Jam lucis orto sidere . 
It is a wonder we were never taught the very 
translation of the psalms in college.” 

“Well, we’re wandering. But set apart, hie et 
nunc , a half-hour for Matins and Lauds; twenty 
minutes for the Small Hours; a quarter of an 
hour for Vespers and Compline ; and take up no 
other duty until that time has expired. Then 
never say your Office from memory, even the parts 
you know best. Read every line from your Brev- 
iary. It is not my advice, but that of St. Charles 
Borromeo. Take half an hour for the celebration 
of Mass. It will be difficult at first, but it will 
come all right. Lastly, train yourself to walk 
slowly and speak slowly and deliberately — ” 

“ You are clipping my wings, Father,” said he, 
“ and putting soles of lead on my feet.” 

“Did you ever hear of Michael Montaigne?” 
.1 said. 

“ Yes. But that ’s all I know about him.” 


152 My New Curate 

“Quite enough, indeed. He hardly improves 
on acquaintance. But his father trained himself to 
wear leaden shoes in order that he might leap the 
higher. That’s what I want from you. But 
where’s this we were? Oh, yes! You must take 
these poor people more easily. You cannot undo 
in a day the operations of three hundred years — ” 

“Yes, but look how these people spring into 
the very van of civilization when they go to Eng- 
land or America. Why, they seem to assume at 
once all the graces of the higher life.” 

“Precisely, — the eternal question of environ- 
ment. But under our circumstances we must be 
infinitely patient.” 

“ What vexes me most,” said Father Letheby, 
“ is that we have here the material of saints ; and 
yet — look now at that wretched Deady ! I don’t 
mind his insolence, but the shifty dishonesty of 
the fellow.” 

“Let him alone ! By this time he is stung with 
remorse for what he said. Then he ’ll make a gen- 
eral confession to his wife. She’ll flay him with 
her tongue for having dared to say a disrespectful 
word to God’s minister. Then he’ll go on a 
desperate spree for a week to stifle conscience, 
during which orgies he’ll beat his wife black and 
blue ; finally, he ’ll come to you, sick, humbled, 
and repentant, to apologize and take the pledge 
for life again. That ’s the programme.” 

“ ’Tis pitiful,” said the young priest. 


Church Improvements 153 

But the following Sunday he recovered all his 
lost prestige and secured immortal fame at the 
football match between the “Holy Terrors” of 
Kilronan and the “ Wolfe Tones ” of Moydore. 
For, being asked to “kick off” by these athletes, 
he sent the ball up in a straight line seventy or 
eighty feet, and it struck the ground just three feet 
away from where he stood. There was a shout of 
acclamation from the whole field, which became a 
roar of unbounded enthusiasm when he sent the 
ball flying in a parabola, not six feet from 
the ground, and right to the hurdles that marked 
the opposite goal. The Kilronan men were wild 
about their young curate, and under his eye they 
beat their opponents hollow; and one admirer, 
leaning heavily on his caman , was heard to say : — 

“ My God, if he ’d only lade us ! ” 


CHAPTER XIII 


“all things to all men” 

In pursuing my course of lectures to my young 
curate — lectures which he returned with com- 
pound interest by his splendid example of zeal 
and energy — I put into his hands the follow- 
ing lines, addressed by that gentle saint, Francis 
de Sales, to some one in whom he had a similar 
interest : — 

“ Accustom yourself to speak softly and slowly, and to 
go — I mean walk — quite composedly; to do all that 
you do gently and quietly, and you will see that in three 
or four years you will have quite regulated this hasty 
impetuosity. But carefully remember to act thus gently 
and speak softly on occasions when the impetuosity is 
not urging you, and when there is no appearance of 
danger of it, as, for example, when sitting down, rising 
up, eating, when you speak to N. N., etc. ; and in fact 
everywhere and in everything dispense not yourself from 
it. Now, I know that you will make a thousand slips a 
day over all this, and that your great natural activity 
will be always breaking out ; but I do not trouble my- 
self about this provided that it is not your will, your 
deliberation ; and that, when you perceive these move- 
ments, you always try to calm them. Equableness of 
mind and of outward demeanor is not a particular virtue, 


“All Things to all Men” 155 

but the interior and exterior ornament of a friend of 
Jesus Christ.” (Letter VII.) 

Now, here ’s the difficulty. Undoubtedly he is 
impetuous, he rushes at conclusions too rapidly, 
he judges hastily; and with an imperfect knowl- 
edge of human nature, which is a mass of irregu- 
larities, he worries himself because he cannot bring 
a whole parish up to his level in a few weeks. 
That impetuosity shows itself everywhere. He is 
an anachronism, a being from another time and 
world, set down in sleepy Kilronan. For the first 
few weeks that he was here, whenever he slammed 
his hall door and strode down the village street 
with long, rapid, undulating steps, all the dogs 
came out and barked at him for disturbing their 
slumbers, and all the neighbors came to their 
doors and asked wildly, “Who’s dead? What 
happened? Where’s the fire?” etc., and the con- 
sequence was that the wildest rumors used to be 
circulated; and then, when a few days’ experi- 
ence disproved them, the cumulative wrath of the 
disappointed villagers fell on Father Letheby’s 
devoted head. 

“Why the mischief doesn’t he go aisy? Sure, 
you ’d think he was walking for a wager. He ’ll 
kill himself in no time if he goes on that way.” 

He used to laugh airily at all this commotion. 
And now here was the puzzle. No doubt what- 
ever he can do more work in one day than I or 
Father Tom Lavorty could do in a month. And 


156 My New Curate 

if I clip his wings, and put lead in his shoes, as he 
remarked, he may take to slippers and the gout, 
and all his glorious work be summarily spoiled. 
That would never do. I have no scruple about 
what I said regarding the Office and Mass; but 
if I shall see him creeping past my window in a 
solemn and dignified manner, I know I shall have 
qualms of conscience. And yet — 

It was in the beginning of December, and one 
day I had occasion to go down through the vil- 
lage. It was not a day to attract any one out of 
doors; it was one of those dreadful days which 
leave an eternal landmark behind them in the 
trees that are bent inwards toward the mountains 
from the terrible stress of the southwest winds. 
Land and sea were wiped out in the cataracts of 
rain that poured their deluges on sea and moor 
and mountain ; and the channels of the village ran 
fiercely with brown muddy water ; and every living 
thing was housed, except the ducks, which con- 
temptuously waded through the dirty ruts, and 
only quacked melodiously when the storm lifted 
their feathers and flung them from pool to pool of 
the deserted street. I called on Father Letheby. 

“ This is dismal weather,” I said, “ enough to give 
any one a fit of the blues in this awful place.” 

He looked at me, as if this were an attempt to 
draw him. There was a roar of wind that shook 
his window-sashes, as if it said, “ We will get in 
and spoil your pleasure, whether you like it or 


“All Things to all Men” 157 

not ” ; and there was a shower of bullets, as from 
a Maxim, that threatened to smash in and devas- 
tate all the cosey comforts. 

“ By Jove,” said he, turning round, “ I never felt 
happier in my life. And every roar and splash of 
the tempest makes me draw closer and closer to 
this little nest, which I can call my own home.” 

It was a cosey nest, indeed. The fire burned 
merrily, — a little coal, a good deal of bogwood 
and turf, which is the cleanest fire in the world ; 
there was cleanliness, neatness, tidiness, taste every- 
where ; the etchings and engravings gave tone to 
the walls ; the piano lay open, as if saying, “ Come, 
touch me ” ; the books, shining in gold and red 
and blue and purple, winked in the firelight; and, 
altogether, it was a picture of delight accentuated 
by the desolation outside. 

“What do I want? ” he continued. “Ease? here 
it is; comfort? here it is; health? thank God, per- 
fect; society? here are the kings of men on my 
shelves. I have only to summon them, — here 
Plato, Aristotle, zEschylus, Virgil, Dante, Shake- 
speare ! come here, and they come ; speak, and 
they open their dead lips ; be silent, and back they 
go to their shelves. I have not got your Greek 
Fathers yet; but they’ll come. You notice that 
my theological library is rather scant. But I can 
borrow St. Thomas, Lugo, Suarez ; I cannot bor- 
row the others, for you are so jealous abour your 
books.” 


158 My New Curate 

“ Rather clever economy ! ” I said. “ But now 
tell me what you do without the morning pa- 
per?” 

“ Well, now, there you touched a sore point. At 
least it was; but it is healing. For the first few 
weeks it was my daily penance. I used always 
breakfast in England with the paper propped 
against the teapot. They said it was bad for 
digestion, but it made me eat slowly; and you 
may perhaps have perceived, — indeed, you have 
perceived, — that I am rather quick in my habits.” 

I nodded oracularly. 

“ Well, the first few weeks I was here that was 
my only misery. Without the paper everything 
looked lonely and miserable. I used to go to the 
door every five minutes to see whether there was 
a newsboy on the horizon ; but you cannot under- 
stand the feeling.” 

“Can’t I? I know it well. You remember what 
the uprooted tree was to the blinded giant in 
Virgil : 

‘ Ea sola voluptas, 

Solamenque mali.’ 

Well, that was the newspaper to me. But how 
do you get on now?” 

“ I never care to see one. Nay, I should rather 
have a feeling of contempt for any one whom I 
should see wasting valuable time on them.” 

“ But the news of the world, politics, wars, the 
amenities of Boards of Guardians, Town Commis- 


“All Things to all Men” 159 

sioners, etc. ; the suicides, the divorces, stocks and 
shares, etc. ; — don’t these things interest you? ” 

“ No. My only regret is, when the boys ask 
me about the war, I am afraid I appear awfully 
ignorant. And they’re so learned. Why, every 
fellow down at the forge thinks himself a Gen- 
eral or an Admiral. ‘Ah, if I had dem troops, 
would n’t I settle so and so ! ’ Or, ‘ Why the 

d did n’t Gineral S bring out his cavalry? 

’T is the cavalry does it. Bourbaki — he was the 
Gineral!’ ‘Yerra, what was he to Skobeloff ? ’ 
And they look at me rather mournfully.” 

Here an awful blast swept the house, as if to 
raze it to its foundations. 

“A pleasant day for a sick-call to Slieveogue ! ” 
I said. 

“ I should n’t mind one bit. ’T would make the 
fire the merrier when I returned. I enjoy nothing 
half so much as walking in the teeth of wind and 
rain, along the smooth turf on yonder cliffs, the 
cool air lapping you all round, and the salt of 
the sea on your lips. Then, when you return, a 
grand throw-off, and the little home pleasanter 
by the contrast. By the way, I was out this 
morning.” 

“Out this morning? Where?” I exclaimed. 

“ Up at Campion’s.” 

“ Nonsense ! ” 

“ Quite true. And would you guess for what, 
sir? ” 


160 My New Curate 

“ Go on. I am a poor hand at conundrums.” 

“You don’t know Mrs. C , a constable’s 

widow at Moydore?” 

“ I can’t say I have that pleasure. Stop ! Did 
she come about a license?” 

“ She did.” 

“And you helped her? — No! God forbid! 
That would be too great a somersault ! ” 

“ I did.” 

“ What?” 

He looked embarrassed, and said, apologetically : 
“ Well, pardon me, sir, and I ’ll tell you all. She 
came in here this morning, wet and bedraggled. 
Her poor widow’s weeds were dripping with the rain. 
She sat there. You see where her boots have left 
their mark. She said her husband had just died, 
and left her, of course, penniless, with four young 
children. There was nothing before her but the 
workhouse, unless I would help her, — and she 
heard that I was good to the poor ; sure every one 
was talking about me, — you understand ? ” 

I nodded. 

“Well, there was but one possible way in which 
she could be helped, and that was to get her a 
license to sell porter and spirits. I stopped her 
abruptly, and said : ‘ My dear woman, you might 
as well ask me to get you appointed lady in wait- 
ing to the Queen. But in any case I ’d rather cut 
off my right hand than help any one to get a 
license. Nay, I am fully determined to cut down 


“All Things to all Men” 161 

every license in this parish until but one is left.’ 
She looked at me in amazement. Then her Celtic 
temper rose. ‘ Wisha, ’t is aisy for you to lecture 
poor people who have not a bite or a sup, nor a 
roof over their heads, wid your carpets, and your 
pictures, and your pianney, and your brass fire- 
irons ; but if you had four little garlachs to feed, 
as I have, you ’d have a different story.’ Here she 
arose to go ; and, as a parting shot : ‘ God help 
the poor, however; sure they have no one to go 
to when their priests desart them.’ I don’t know 
what it was,” continued Father Letheby, “but I soft- 
ened a little here, and said : ‘ Now, I have told you 
that I cannot do anything towards getting you a 
license — it ’s against all my principles ; but I ’ll 
tell you what I ’ll do. I ’ll go up to Captain Cam- 
pion’s with you, and introduce you on the strength 
of these letters from your parish priest ; but re- 
member, not one word shall I say in favor of your 
demand. Do you understand? ’ ‘ I do, your rev- 

erence,’ she said ; ‘ may God bless you ! ’ The 
hot fires were ashes again. We both went up in 
the awful rain. It was rather early even for a 
morning call, and Captain Campion was not yet 
down stairs. So I left the widow in the hall, and 
went out to a sheltered spot, where I could watch 
the action of the storm on the waves. In half an 
hour I returned. There was no necessity for an 
introduction. The good woman had introduced 
herself, and secured Captain Campion’s vote and 


162 My New Curate 

influence for the next licensing sessions. I was 
never so sorry — nor so glad.” 

“ ’T is a bad business,” I said mournfully. 
“ Imagine eight public houses in this wretched 
village of three hundred souls ! ” 

“Tis, sir! ” he said, as if his conscience stung 
him ; “ but I did some good by my visit ; I think I 
have brought Captain Campion around.” 

“To what?” I exclaimed. 

“To recognize his duty to the Church, and the 
people, and God, by going to his duty.” 

“You don’t say so?” I said, and I was surprised. 
I could not help thinking of what a glorious triumph 
it would be to that gentle saint, whose brow was 
never troubled but with the thought of her father’s 
perversity. How often, how ardently, she had 
prayed for that day ; how many Masses, how many 
Communions, she had offered to obtain that grace ! 
Many a time I have seen her, after Holy Com- 
munion, straining her eyes on the Tabernacle, and 
I knew she was knocking vigorously at the Heart 
of Christ; and many a time have I seen her, a 
Lady of Sorrows, imploring the Queen of Sorrows 
to take that one trouble from her life. Oh ! if men 
could only know what clouds of anguish and despair 
their indifference to the practices of their holy 
religion brings down upon gentle hearts, that 
dare not speak their sorrow, the Church would not 
have to mourn so many and such faithless and 
rebellious children. 


“All Things to all Men” 163 

I said to Father Letheby: “God bless you; but 
how did you work the miracle?” 

“ Well,” he said bashfully, “ it was not the work 
of one day or of one visit. I have been laying my 
train to the citadel ; to-day I fired it, and he ca- 
pitulated. Tell me, sir, did you ever hear of the 
Haley one ? ” 

Did I ever hear of the Haley one ? Who did n’t? 
Was there a man, woman, or child, from the Cliffs 
of Moher to Achill Island, that did not know the 
dainty five-ton yacht, which, as a contrast to his 
own turbulent spirit, he had so named? Was it 
not everywhere said that Campion loved that yacht 
more than his child, — that he spoke to her and 
caressed her as a living thing, — and how they slept 
on the calm deep on summer nights, whilst phos- 
phor-laden waves lapped around them, and only 
the dim dawn, with her cold, red finger woke 
them to life? And was it not told with pride and 
terror in every coracle along the coast with what 
fierce exultation he took her out on stormy days, 
and headed her straight against the billows, that 
broke into courtesies on every side, and how she 
leaped up the walls of water which lay down 
meekly beneath her, and shook out her white sail 
to the blast, until its curved face brushed the 
breakers, and her leaden keel showed through the 
valleys of the sea? and men leaned on their 
spades to see her engulfed in the deep, and 
the coast-guards levelled their long glasses, and 


164 My New Curate 

cried : “ There goes mad Campion and the witch 
again ! ” 

“ What do you know about the Halcyone f ” 
said I. 

“ A good deal by hearsay ; not a little by per- 
sonal experience,” he replied. 

“ Why, you don’t mean to say that you have 
seen the famous yacht?” I asked, in amazement. 

“ Seen her, steered her, laughed at her, feared 
her, like Campion himself.” 

“ Why, I thought Campion never allowed any 
one but himself and his daughter to cross her 
gunwale? ” 

“Well, all that I tell you is, I have been out 
several evenings with the Captain ; and if you want 
to examine me in jibs, and mainsails, and top-gal- 
lants, now is your time.” 

Look here ! This curate of mine is becoming 
quite humorous, and picking up all our Celtic 
ways. I don’t at all like it, because I would much 
rather he would keep up all his graceful dignity. 
But there again — the eternal environments. How 
far will he go ? 

“ Don’t mind your lessons in navigation now,” I 
said, “ but come to the point. How — did — you 
— catch — Campion ? ” 

“Well, ’t is a long story, but I shall try to 
abridge it. I knew there was but one way to this 
man’s heart, and I was determined to try it. Has 
not some one said, * All things to all men? ’ Very 


“All Things to all Men” 165 

well. Talk to a farmer about his crops, to a 
huntsman about his horses, to a fisherman about 
his nets, you have him in the palm of your hands. 
It is a kind of Christian diplomacy ; but I would 
much rather it were not necessary.” 

He was silent, leaning his head on his hands. 

“ Never mind,” I said, “ the question of honor. 
Human nature is a very crooked thing, and you 
can’t run a level road over a hill.” 

“ I never like even the shadow of deception,” he 
said; “I hate concealment; and yet I should not 
like Campion to know that I practised even so 
innocent a stratagem.” 

“ Oh, shade of Pascal ! ” I cried, “ even you 
could detect no casuistry here. And have you no 
scruple, young man, in keeping an old gentleman 
on the tenter-hooks of expectation whilst you are 
splitting hairs? Go on, like a good fellow, I was 
never so interested in my life. The idea of landing 
Campion ! ” 

“ Well, ’t was this way. I knew a little about 
boats, and made the Captain cognizant of the fact. 
I expected an invitation. He did not rise to the 
bait. Then I tried another plan. I asked him 
why he never entered the Halcyone for the Galway 
regatta. He muttered something of contempt for 
all the coast boats. I said quietly that I heard she 
tacked badly in a strong gale, and that it was only 
in a light breeze she did well. He got furious, 
which was just what I wanted. We argued and 


1 66 My New Curate 

reasoned ; and the debate ended in his asking me 
out the first fresh day that came last September. 
I don’t know if you remember that equinoctial gale 
that blew about the 18th or 19th. It was strong, 
much stronger than I cared for ; but I was pinned 
to my engagement. I met him down at the creek. 
The wind blew off the land. It was calm enough 
in the sheltered water ; but when we got out, by 
Jove, I wished a hundred times that I was here. I 
lay down in the gangway of the yacht whilst Cam- 
pion steered. From time to time great waves 
broke over the bow of the yacht, and in a little 
while I was drenched to the skin. Campion had 
his yellow oil-skins, and laughed at me. Occasion- 
ally he asked, Does she tack well? I answered 
coolly. I knew he was trying my nerve, as we 
mounted breaker after breaker and plunged down 
into awful valleys of the sea. Then, as one great 
squall broke round and the yacht keeled over, he 
turned the helm, until she lay flat on a high wave, 
and her great sail swept the crest of its foam, and 
her pennon dipped in the deep. I thought it was 
all over, as I clutched the gunwale to prevent my 
falling into the sea. He watched me narrowly, and 
in a moment righted the yacht. 

“‘We were near Davy Jones’s locker there?’ 
he said coolly. 

We would n’t remain long together,’ I 
replied. 

“ ‘ How? * 


“All Things to all Men” 167 

“ ‘ Well, you know, you ’d go a little deeper, 
and I should hope I would get a little higher.’ 

“ ‘ You mean I ’d have gone to Hell? ” 

“ * Certainly,’ I replied. 

“‘I’m not a bad man,’ he said, taken aback. 

“‘You are,’ I replied; ‘you persecute the 
poor and drag their faces through the dust. 
You ’re an irreligious man, because you never 
kneel to God; you’re a dishonest man, because 
you profess to belong to a faith whose doctrines 
you do not accept, and whose commands you 
disobey.’ 

“ ‘ Hallo, there ! ’ said he, ‘ I ’m not used to this 
kind of language.’ 

“ ‘ Perhaps not,’ I said ; for with the thorough 
drenching and the fright I was now thoroughly 
angry. ‘But you’ll have to listen to it. You 
cannot put your fingers in your ears and steer the 
Halcyone. It will take us an hour to reach land, 
and you must hear what you never heard before.” 

“ ‘ I ’ve a strong inclination,’ he said, ‘ to pitch 
you overboard.’ 

“‘I’m quite sure you ’re perfectly capable of 
murder,’ I said. ‘ But again, you cannot let go 
the ropes in this gale. Besides, there are two 
sides to that question.’ 

“ Then and there I pitched into him, told him 
how he was breaking his child’s heart, how he was 
hated all along the coast, etc., etc. ; but I insisted 
especially on his dishonesty in professing a creed 


1 68 My New Curate 

which he denied in daily practice. I was thor- 
oughly angry, and gave my passion full swing. 
He listened without a word as we went shoreward. 
At last he said : 

“ ‘By Jove ! I never thought that a priest could 
speak to a gentleman so boldly. Now, that 
damned old landlubber’ — I beg your pardon, 
sir,” broke in my curate, “ the words escaped me 
involuntarily.” 

“ Never mind,” I said, “ go on.” 

“But it was very disrespectful — ” 

“Now, I insist on hearing every word he said. 
Why, that’s the cream of the story.” 

“Well, he said: ‘That damned old landlubber 
and bookworm never addressed me in that man- 
ner,’ — but perhaps he meant some one else.” 

“Never fear! He meant his respected old 
pastor. The ‘ landlubber ’ might apply to other 
natives ; but I fear they could hardly be called 
‘ bookworm ’ with any degree of consistency. 
But go on.” 

“ Well, you know, he spoke rather jerkily, and 
as if in soliloquy. ‘ Well, I never ! ’ ‘ Who ’d 

have thought it from this sleek fellow?’ ‘Why, 
I thought butter would not melt in his mouth ! ’ 
‘What will Bittra say when I tell her?’ At last 
we pulled into the creek ; I jumped ashore from 
the dingey, as well as my dripping clothes would 
let me, and lifting my hat, without a word, I 
walked towards home. He called after me : — 


u < 


“All Things to all Men” 169 

One word, Father Letheby ! You must 
come up to the house and dry yourself. You ’ll 
catch your death of cold.’ 

'“Oh! ’twill be nothing,’ I said. He had 
come up with me, and looked humbled and 
crestfallen. 

“ ‘ You must pardon all my rudeness,’ he said, in a 
shamefaced manner. ' But, to be very candid with 
you, I was never met so boldly before, and I like 
it. We men of the world hate nothing so much 
as a coward. If some of your brethren had the 
courage of their convictions and challenged us 
poor devils boldly, things might be different. We 
like men to show that they believe in Hell by try- 
ing to keep us from it.’ But now I am sounding 
my own praises. It is enough to say that he 
promised to think the matter over ; and I clinched 
the whole business by getting his promise that he 
would be at the altar on Christmas morning.” 

I thought a good deal, and said : “ It is a 
wholesome lesson. We have no scruple in cuffing 
Jem Deady or Bill Shanahan; but we don’t like 
to tackle the big-wigs. And they despise us for 
our cowardice. Isn’t that it? Well, my dear 
fellow, you are a TeTpaycovos avrjp, as old Aris- 
totle would say, — an idea, by the way, stolen by 
Dante in his ‘ sta come torre ferma.’ In plainer 
language, you ’re a brick! Poor little Bittra ! 
how pleased she ’ll be ! ” 


CHAPTER XIV 


FIRST FRIDAYS 

I NOTICE, as I proceed with these mnemonic scraps 
from my diary, and try to cast them into shape, 
a curious change come over me. I feel as one 
waking from a trance, and all the numbed facul- 
ties revive and assert their power; and all the 
thoughts and desires, yea, even the capabilities 
of thirty years ago, come back and seem to claim 
their rightful places, as a deposed king would like 
to sit on his throne, and hold his sceptre once 
more before he dies. And so all my ideas are 
awakening; and the cells of memory, as if at 
some magic Sesame , yield up their contents ; and 
even the mechanical trick of writing, which they 
say is never fully lost, appears to creep back into 
my rheumatized fingers as the ink flows freely 
from my pen. I know, indeed, that some say I 
am passing into my second childhood. I do not 
resent it; nor would I murmur even at such a 
blessed dispensation. For I thank God I have 
kept through all the vicissitudes of life, and all the 
turbulence of thought, the heart of a little child. 

There is nothing human that does not interest 
me. All the waywardness of humanity provokes 


First Fridays 17 i 

a smile; there is no wickedness so great that I 
cannot pity ; no folly that I cannot condone ; 
patient to wait for the unravelling of the skein of 
life till the great Creator willeth, meanwhile look- 
ing at all things sub specie ceternitatis , and ever 
finding new food for humility in the barrenness of 
my own life. But it has been a singular intellect- 
ual revival for me to feel all my old principles 
and thoughts shadowing themselves clearer and 
clearer on the negatives of memory where the 
sunflames of youth imprinted them, and from 
which, perhaps, they will be transferred to the 
tablets that last for eternity. But here God has 
been very good unto me in sending me this young 
priest to revive the past. We like to keep our 
consciousness till we die. I am glad to have 
been aroused by so sympathetic a spirit from the 
coma of thirty years. 

It is quite true, indeed, that he disturbs, now 
and again, the comforts of senile lethargy. And 
sometimes the old Adam will cry out, and sigh for 
the leaden ages, for he is pursuing with invincible 
determination his great work of revival in the 
parish. He has doubled, trebled, the confessions 
of the people on Saturday, and the subsequent 
Sunday Communions. He has seized the hearts 
of all the young men. He is forever preaching to 
them on the manliness of Christ, — His truthful- 
ness, His honor, His fearlessness, His tenderness. 
He insists that Christ had a particular affection 


172 My New Curate 

for the young. Witness how He chose His 
Apostles, and how He attached them to His 
Sacred Person. And thus my curate’s confes- 
sional is thronged every Saturday night by silent, 
humble, thoughtful young fellows, sitting there in 
the dark, for the two candles at the altar rails 
throw but a feeble light into the blackness ; and 
Mrs. Darcy, under all improvements, has retained 
her sense of economy. 

“ Where ’s the use,” she says, “ of lighting more 
than wan candle, for wan candle is as good as 
fifty?” 

She has compromised with Father Letheby for 
two, for his slightest wish is now a command. 

And so the young girls and all the men go to 
Father Letheby ’s confessional. The old women 
and the little children come to me. They don’t 
mind an occasional growl, which will escape me 
sometimes. Indeed, they say they ’d rather hear 
one roar from the “ ould man” than if Father 
Letheby, “ wid his gran’ accent,” was preaching 
forever. But young men are sensitive ; and I am 
not sorry. 

Yet, if my Guardian Angel were to ask me, 
What in the world have you to grumble about? 
I could n’t tell him. For I never come away from 
that awful and sacred duty of the confessional 
without a sense of the deepest humiliation. I 
never sit in “ the box,” as the people call the con- 
fessional. A slight deafness in one ear, and the 


First Fridays 173 

necessity of stretching occasionally a rheumatized 
foot, make it more convenient for me to sit over 
there, near and under the statue of our Blessed 
Mother. There in my arm-chair I sit, with the old 
cloak w T rapped round me that sheltered me many 
a night on the mountains. And there the little 
children come, not a bit shy or afraid of old 
“ Daddy Dan.” They pick their way across the 
new carpet with a certain feeling of awkwardness, 
as if there were pins and needles hidden some- 
where ; but when they arrive at safe anchorage, 
they put their dirty clasped fingers on my old 
cassock, toss the hair from their eyes, and look 
me straight in the face, whilst they tell their little 
story to me and God. They are now well trained 
in the exact form of confession. Father Letheby 
has drilled them well. But dear me ! what white 
souls they are ! Poverty and purity have worked 
hand in hand to make them angelic, and their 
faces are transfigured by the light that shines 
within. And their attenuated bodies show clearly 
the burning lamp of holiness and faith, as a light 
shines soft and clear through the opal shades of 
porcelain or Sevres. And the little maidens always 
say, “ Tank you, Fader,” when they receive their 
penance; and the boys say,“ All right.” I some- 
times expect to hear “ old fellow ” added. Then the 
old women come ; and, afraid to touch the grand 
carpet with their feet, they leave rather vivid im- 
pressions in brown mud on the waxed floor, which 


174 ^7 New Curate 

is the very thing that Miss Campion does not 
want ; and they throw themselves backward whilst 
they recite in the soft, liquid Gaelic the Confiteor ; 
and then raise themselves erect, pull up their 
black cloaks or brown shawls with the airs and 
dignity of a young barrister about to address the 
jury, arrange the coif of shawl or hood of cloak 
around their heads, and then tell you — nothing ! 
God bless them, innocent souls ! No need for 
these elaborate preparations. Yet what contrition, 
what sorrow, what love they pour forth over some 
simple imperfections, where even a Jansenist can- 
not detect the shadow of a venial sin ! No wonder 
that my curate declares that we have material in 
Ireland to make it again a wonder to the world, — 
an Island of Saints once more ! But something is 
wanting. He does not know what, nor do I. But 
he says sometimes that he feels as if he were work- 
ing in the dark. He cannot get inside the natures 
of the people. There is a puzzle, an enigma 
somewhere. The people are but half revealed to 
us. There is a world of thought and feeling hidden 
away somewhere, and unrevealed. Who has the 
key? He is seeking for it everywhere, and cannot 
find it. Now, you know, he is a transcendental- 
ism so I don’t mind these vagaries; yet he is 
desperately in earnest. 

But he is very kind and tender towards his old 
pastor. When he “ started ” the devotion of the 
Nine Fridays in honor of the Sacred Heart, of 


First Fridays 175 

course he set them all wild. Their eternal salva- 
tion depended on their performing the Nine Fridays 
successively. And so one Thursday night, when 
the wind was howling dismally, and the rain patter- 
ing on the windows, and the fire in my little grate 
looking all the brighter from the contrast, a timid 
knock came to my door. I put down the Pensfcs 
of Pascal, — a book for which I have a strange 
predilection, though I do not like the man who 
wrote it. 

“Some children want to see you, sir,” said 
Hannah. “ I hope you ’re not going to leave the 
house in this weather.” 

“Send them in and let us see,” I replied. 

They came to the door reluctantly enough, one 
pushing the other before her, and there they stood 
bashfully, their fingers in their mouths, staring at 
the lamp, and the pictures, and the books, like 
Alice in Wonderland. 

“Well, what’s up, now?” I said, turning around. 

“ ’T is the way we wants to go to confession, 
Fader.” 

“ Hallo ! are ye going to die to-night that ye 
are in such a mighty hurry?” 

“ No, Fader, but to-morrow is the fust Friday.” 

“ Indeed ! so it is. What has that to do with 
the matter?” 

“ But we are all making the Nine Fridays, Fader; 
and if we break wan, we must commence all over 


again. 


176 My New Curate 

“ Well, run down to Father Letheby; he’ll 
hear you.” 

“ Father Letheby is in his box, Fader; and” — 
here there was a little smile and a fingering of the 


A 



“ ’T is the way we wants to go to confession, Fader.” 


pinafores — “we’d rader go to you, Fader.” 

I took the compliment for what it was worth. 
The Irish race appear to have kissed the Blarney 
stone in globo. 

“ And have you no pity on a poor old man, to 
take him out this dreadful night down to that cold 


/ 


First Fridays 177 

church, and keep him there till ten or eleven 
o’clock to-night?” 

“ We won’t keep you long, Fader. We were at 
our juty last month.” 

“ All right, get away, and I ’ll follow you 
quickly. Mind your preparation.” 

“ All right, Fader.” 

“ ’T is n’t taking leave of your seven sinses you 
are, going down to that cowld chapel this awful 
night,” said Hannah, when she had closed the 
door on the children. “ Wisha, thin, if I knew 
what them whipsters wanted, ’t is long before they 
crossed the thrishol of the door. Nine Fridays, 
begor ! As if the Brown Scaffler and the first 
Sunday of the month was n’t enough for them. 
And here I ’ll be now for the rest of the winter, 
cooking your coughs and cowlds. Sure, you ’re 
no more able to take care of yerself than an 
unwaned child.” 

She brought me my boots, and my old cloak, 
and my muffler, and my umbrella all the same; 
and as I passed into the darkness and the rain, 
I heard anathemas on “ these new fandangos, as 
if there were n’t as good priests in the parish as 
ever he was.” 

I slipped into the church, as I thought, unper- 
ceived ; but I was hardly seated, when I heard the 
door of Father Letheby’s confessional flung open; 
and with his quick, rapid stride, and his purple 
stole flying from his shoulders, he was immediately 
12 


178 My New Curate 

at my side, and remonstrating vigorously at my 
imprudence. 

“This is sheer madness, sir, coming out of your 
warm room on this dreadful night. Surely, when 
I got your permission to establish this devotion, I 
never intended this.” 

“ Never mind, now,” I said, “ I ’m not going to 
allow you to make a somersault into heaven over 
my head. In any case, these little mites won’t 
take long.” 

They looked alarmed enough at his angry face. 

“ Well, then, I shall ask you to allow me to dis- 
continue this devotion after to-night.” 

“ Go back to your confessional. Sufficient for 
the day is the evil thereof. There’s plenty of 
time to consider the future.” 

He was much annoyed over my indiscretion; 
but he resumed his work. Mine was quickly gone 
through, and I passed up the dimly lighted aisle, 
wondering at myself. Just near the door, I could 
not forbear looking around the deep sepulchral 
gloom. It was lit by the one red lamp that shone 
like a star in the sanctuary, and by the two dim 
waxlights in tin sconces, that cast a pallid light on 
the painted pillars, and a brown shadow farther up, 
against which were silhouetted the figures of the 
men, who sat in even rows around Father Letheby’s 
confessional. Now and again a solitary penitent 
darkened the light of the candles, as he moved up 
to the altar rails to read his penance or thanks- 


First Fridays 179 

giving; or the quick figure of a child darted 
rapidly past me into the thicker darkness without. 
Hardly a sound broke the stillness, only now and 
then there was a moan of sorrow, or some expres- 
sion of emphasis from the penitents ; and the 
drawing of the slides from time to time made a 
soft sibilance, as of shuttles, beneath which were 
woven tapestries of human souls that were fit to 
hang in the halls of heaven. Silently the mighty 
work went forward ; and I thought, as there and 
then the stupendous sacrifice of Calvary was 
brought down into our midst, and the hands of 
that young priest gathered up the Blood of Christ 
from grass, and stone, and wood, — from reeking 
nails and soldier’s lance, and the wet weeping hair 
of Magdalen, and poured it softly on the souls of 
these young villagers, — I thought what madness 
possesses the world not to see that this sublime 
assumption of God’s greatest privilege of mercy is 
in itself the highest dogmatic proof of the Divine 
origin of the Church; for no purely human in- 
stitution could dare usurp such an exalted posi- 
tion, nor assume the possession of such tremendous 
power. 

As I knelt down, and turned to leave the church, 
I felt my cloak gently pulled. I looked down 
and faintly discerned in the feeble light some one 
huddled at my feet. I thought at first it was one 
of the little children, for they used sometimes to 
wait for the coveted privilege of holding the hand 


180 My New Curate 

of their old pastor, and conducting him homeward 
in the darkness. This was no child, however, but 
some one fully grown, as I conjectured, though I 
saw nothing but the outline of wet and draggled 
garments. I waited. Not a word came forth, but 
something like the echo of a sob. Then I said : T — 
“ Whom have I here, and what do you want ? ” 
“ Father, Father, have pity ! ” 

“ I do not know who you are,” I replied, “ and 
wherefore I should have pity. If you stand up and 
speak, I ’ll know what to say or do.” 

“You know me well,” said the woman’s voice, 
“ too well. Am I to be cast out forever? ” 

Then I recognized Nance, who had followed and 
blessed Father Tom the evening he left us. She 
did not bless me nor address me. I had to speak 
publicly of poor Nance ; perhaps, indeed, I spoke 
too sharply and strongly, — it is so hard to draw 
the line between zeal and discretion, it is so easy 
to degenerate into weakness or into excess. And 
Nance feared me. Probably she was the only one 
of the villagers who never dared address me. 

“ What do you want here? ” I gently said. 

“ What do I want here? ’T is a quare question 
for a priest to be afther asking. What did the poor 
crature want when she wint to a bigger man dan 
you, and she was n’t turned away aither? ” 

“ Yes, Nance ; but she repented and loved Christ, 
and was prepared to die rather than sin again.” 
‘‘And how do you know but I’m the same? 


First Fridays 181 

Do you know more than the God above you ? — 
and He is my witness here to-night before His 
Blessed and Holy Son that all hell-fire won’t make 
me fall again. Hell-fire, did I say?” Her voice 
here sunk into a low whisper. “ It is n’t hell-fire 
I dread, but His face and yours.” 

I stooped down and lifted her gently. The 
simple kindness touched the broken vase of her 
heart, and she burst into an agony of passionate 
tears. 

“ Oh, wirra ! wirra ! if you had only said that 
much to me three months ago, what you ’d have 
saved me. But you’d the hard word, Father, and 
it drove me wild to think that, as you said, I was 
n’t fit to come and mix with the people at Mass. 
And many and many a night in the cowld and 
hunger, I slept there at the door of the chapel; 
and only woke up to bate the chapel door, and ask 
God to let me in. But sure His hand was agin me, 
like yours, and I dare n’t go in. And sometimes I 
looked through the kayhole, to where His heart 
was burnin’, and I thought He would come out, 
when no one could see Him, and spake to me; but 
no! no! Him and you were agin me; and then 
the chapel woman ’ud come in the cowld of the 
mornin’, and I would shlink away to my hole 
agin? ” 

“ Speak low, Nance,” I whispered, as her voice 
hissed through the darkness. “ The men will hear 
you ! ” 


182 My New Curate 

“ They often heard worse from me than what I 
am saying to-night, God help me ! ’T is n’t the 
men I care about, nor their doings. But whin the 
young girls would crass the street, les’ they should 
come near me, and the dacent mothers ’ud throw 
their aprons over their childres’ heads, les’ they 
should see me, ah ! that was the bitter pill. And 
many and many a night, whin you wor in your bed, 
I stood down on dem rocks below, with the say 
calling for me, and the hungry waves around me 
and there was nothin’ betune me and hell but 
that — ” 

She fumbled in her bosom and drew out a ragged, 
well-worn scapular with a tiny medal attached, and 
kissed it. 

“ And sure I know if I wint with ’em, I should 
have to curse the face of the Blessed and Holy 
Mary forever, and I said then, 4 Never ! Never ! * 
and I faced the hard world agin.” 

I detected the faintest odor of spirits as she 
spoke. 

“ ’Tis hardly a good beginning, Nance, to come 
here straight from the public house.” 

“ ’T was only a thimbleful Mrs. Haley gave me, 
to give me courage to face you.” 

“ And what is it to be now? Are you going to 
change your life? ” 

“ Yerra, what else would bring me here to-night? ” 

“ And you are going to make up your mind to 
go to confession as soon as you can? ” 


First Fridays 183 

“As soon as I can? This very moment, wid 
God’s blessing.” 

“ Well, then, I ’ll ask Father Letheby to step out 
for a moment and hear you.” 

“ If you do, then I ’ll lave the chapel on the spot, 
and maybe you won’t see me agin.” She pulled 
up her shawl, as if to depart. 

“What harm has Father Letheby done you? 
Sure every one likes him.” 

“ Maybe ! But he never gave me word or 
look that was n’t pison since he came to the parish. 
I ’ll go to yourself.” 

“But,” I said, fearing that she had still some 
dread of me that might interfere with the integ- 
rity of her confession, “you know I have a bad 
tongue — ” 

“ Never mind,” she said, “ if you have. Sure 
they say your bark is worse than your bite.” 

And so, then and there, in the gloom of that 
winter’s night, I heard her tale of anguish and sor- 
row; and whilst I thanked God for this, His sheep 
that was lost, I went deeper down than ever into 
the valleys of humiliation and self-reproach : “ Cari- 
tas erga homines, sicut caritas Dei erga nos .” 1 
Here was my favorite text, here my sum total 
of speculative philosophy. I often preached it to 
others, even to Father Letheby, when he came com- 
plaining of the waywardness of this imaginative and 
fickle people. “ If God, from on high, tolerates 

1 Charity towards men, as the charity of God towards us. 


184 My New Curate 

the unspeakable wickedness of the world, — if He 
calmly looks down upon the frightful holocaust of 
iniquity that steams up before His eyes from the 
cities and towns and hamlets of the world, — if He 
tolerates the abomination of paganism, and the 
still worse, because conscious, wickedness of the 
Christian world, why should we be fretful and 
impatient? And if Christ was so gentle and so 
tender towards these foul, ill-smelling, leprous, and 
ungrateful Jews, why should we not be tolerant of 
the venial falls of the holy people, — the kingly 
nation?” And I was obliged to confess that it 
was all pride, — too much sensitiveness, not to 
God’s dishonor, but to the stigma and reproach to 
our own ministrations, that made us forget our 
patience and our duty. And often, on Sunday 
mornings in winter, when the rain poured down in 
cataracts, and the village street ran in muddy 
torrents, and the eaves dripped in steady sheets of 
water, when I stood at my own chapel door and 
saw poor farmers and laborers, old women and 
young girls, drenched through and through, having 
walked six miles down from the farthest mountains ; 
and when I saw, as I read the Acts and the Prayer 
before Mass, a thick fog of steam rising from their 
poor clothes and filling the entire church with a 
strange incense, I thought how easy it ought to 
be for us to condone the thoughtlessness or the 
inconsiderate weaknesses of such a people, and to 
bless God that our lot was cast amongst them. 


First Fridays 185 

I heard, with deeper contrition than hers, the sins 
of that poor outcast; for every reproach she 
addressed to me I heard echoed from the recesses 
of that silent tabernacle. But all my trouble was 
increased when I insisted on her approaching the 
Holy Table in the morning. The thought of go- 
ing to Holy Communion appalled her. “ Perhaps 
in eight or twelve months she’d be fit; but 
to-morrow — ” 

Her dread was something intense, almost fright- 
ful:— 

“ Sure He ’ll kill me, as He killed the man who 
towld the lie ! ” 

I tried to reassure her : — 

“ But they say he ’ll bleed if I touch Him.” 

I gently reasoned and argued with her. Then 
her objections took a more natural turn : — 

“ Sure the people will all rise up and lave the 
chapel.” 

Then it became a question of dress. And it was 
with the greatest difficulty, and only by appealing 
to her humility, and as a penance, that I at last 
induced her to consent to come up to the altar rails 
after all the people had received Holy Communion. 
There was a slight stir next morning when all 
the people had reverently retired from the Holy 
Table. I waited, holding the Sacred Host over 
the Ciborium. The people wondered. Then, from 
the farthest recess of the church, a draped figure 
stole slowly up the aisle. All knew it was Nance. 


1 86 My New Curate 

So far from contempt, only pity, deep pity, filled 
the hearts of old and young; and one could hear 
clearly the tchk ! tchk ! that curious click of sym- 
pathy which I believe is peculiar to our people. 
The tears streamed down the face of the poor peni- 
tent as I placed the Sacred Host upon her tongue. 
Then she rose strengthened, and walked meekly, 
but firmly, back to her place. As she did, I 
noticed that she wore a thick black shawl. It was 
the quick eye of my curate that had seen all. It 
was his gentle, kind heart that forestalled me. 

I got an awful scolding from Hannah when I 
came home that night in the rain. 

“Never mind, Hannah,” I said, when she had 
exhausted her diatribe, “ I never did a better 
night’s work in my life.” 

She looked at me keenly ; but these poor women 
have some queer way of understanding things ; and 
she said humbly: — 

“ Than’ God ! ” 


CHAPTER XV 


HOLLY AND IVY 

The progress of my curate and myself in our study 
of the Greek authors is not so steady or so success- 
ful as we had anticipated. Somehow or other we 
drift away from the subject-matter of our evening 
lessons, and I am beginning to perceive that his 
tastes are more modern, or, to speak more cor- 
rectly, they tend to less archaic and more interest- 
ing studies. Then again I have read somewhere 
that the Hebrew characters, with their minute 
vowel-points, have driven blind many an enthusias- 
tic scholar, and I fear these black Greek letters are 
becoming too much for my old sight. There now, 
dear reader, don’t rush to the conclusion that this 
is just what you anticipated ; you knew, of course, 
how it would be. You never had much faith in 
these transcendental enterprises of reviving Greek 
at the age of seventy-five, and you shook your 
incredulous head at the thought of an Academia 
of two honorary members at Kilronan. Now we 
have done a little. If you could only see the 
“ Dream of Atossa ” done into English pentame- 
ters by my curate, and my own “Prometheus” — - 


1 88 My New Curate 

well, there, this won’t do — Vanity of vanities , 
said the Preacher. 

But this much I shall be pardoned. I cannot 
help feeling very solemn and almost sad at the 
approach of Christmas time. Whether it is the 
long, gloomy tunnel that runs through the year 
from November to April, — these dark, sad days 
are ever weeping, — or whether it is the tender 
associations that are linked with the hallowed time 
and the remembrance of the departed I know not; 
but some indescribable melancholy seems to hover 
around and hang down on my spirits at this holy 
season ; and it is emphasized by a foreboding that 
somewhere in the future this great Christian festival 
will degenerate into a mere bank holiday, and lose 
its sacred and tender and thrice-sanctified associa- 
tions. By the way, is it not curious that our gov- 
ernments are steadily increasing the number of 
secular holidays, whilst the hands of Pharisees are 
still uplifted in horror at the idleness and demor- 
alization produced amongst Catholics by the eight 
or ten days that are given in the year to the honor 
of God’s elect? 

Well, we shall stand by the old traditions to the 
end. And one of my oldest habits has been to 
read up at Christmas time every scrap of literature 
that had any bearing whatever on the most touch- 
ing and the most important event in all human 
history. And so, on the Sunday evening pre- 
ceding the celebration of Father Letheby’s first 


Holly and Ivy 189 

Christmas in Kilronan, I spoke to him at length on 
my ideas and principles in connection with this 
great day; and we went back, in that rambling, 
desultory way that conversation drifts into, — back 
to ancient prophecies and forecastings, down to 
modern times, — tales of travellers about Bethle- 
hem, the sacrilegious possession of holy places by 
Moslems, etc., etc., until the eyes of my curate 
began to kindle, and I saw a possible Bernard or 
Peter in his fine, clear-cut face, and a “ Deus vult” 
in the trembling of his lips. Ah me ! what a 
glorious thing is this enthusiasm of the young, — 
this noble idealism, that spurns the thought of con- 
sequences, only sees the finger of God beckoning 
and cares not whither ! 

“ Hand me down that Virgil,” I said, to avert an 
explosion, for when he does break out on modern 
degeneracy he is not pleasant to hear. 

“ Now spare my old eyes, and read for me, with 
deliberation, those lines of the Fourth Eclogue 
which forecast the coming of our Lord ! ” 

He read in his fine sonorous voice, and he did 
full justice to the noble lines: — 

“ Ultima Cumaei venit jam carminis aetas; 

Magnus ab integro saeclorum nascitur ordo. 

Jam redit et Virgo, redeunt Saturnia regna; 

Jam nova progenies caelo demittitur alto,” — 

down to the two lines which I repeated as a 
prayer : — 

“ O mihi tarn longae maneat pars ultima vitae 
Spiritus et, quantum sat erit tua dicere facta.” 


190 My New Curate 

“No wonder,” he said, at length, “that the 
world of the Middle Ages, which, by the way, 
were the ages of enlightenment, should have re- 
garded Virgil as a magician and even as a saint.” 

“ But,” he said, after a pause, “ the ‘ Dream of 
the Dead Christ ’ would be almost more appropri- 
ate nowadays. It is terrible to think how men are 
drifting away from Him. There ’s Ormsby now, a 
calm, professed infidel ; and absolutely nothing in 
the way to prevent his marriage with Miss Cam- 
pion but his faith, or want of faith.” 

“ Ormsby ! ” I cried. “ Infidel ! Marriage with 
Miss Campion ! — want of faith ! ! ! What in the 
world is this sudden discharge of fireworks and 
Catherine-wheels upon your pastor? Or where 
has all this gunpowder been hitherto stored ? ” 

“ I thought I had told you, sir,” he said, timidly, 
“ but I have so many irons in the fire. You know 
that Ormsby’s marriage is only a question of weeks 
but for one thing.” 

“ And, if I am not trespassing too much on the 
secrecy of your confidential intercourse with these 
young people,” I said (I suppose I was a little 
huffed), “ may I ask how long is all this matri- 
monial enterprise in progress, and how does Cam- 
pion regard it? ” 

“ I am afraid you are offended, sir,” he said, 
“ and indeed quite naturally, because I have not 
spoken about this matter to you before ; but 
really it appears so hopeless, and I hate speak- 


Holly and Ivy igi 

in g of things that are only conjectural. I suppose 
you had set your heart on Miss Campion’s becom- 
ing a nun? ” 

“ God forbid ! ” I said fervently. “ We don’t 
want to see all our best girls running into con- 
vents. I had set my heart on her being married 
to some good, excellent Catholic Irishman, like 
the Chief over at Kilkeel.” 

“Neil Cullen? Campion wouldn’t listen to it. 
His name is a red rag to a bull. He never for- 
gave Cullen for not firing on the people at that 
eviction over at Labbawally, some two or three 
years ago.” 

“ And what does the person most interested 
think of the matter?” I asked. 

“Well, I think she is quite in favor of it,” he 
said. “ Her father likes him, he will live in the 
old house, and she likes him, — at least, she asked 
me to do all in my power to bring him into the 
Church.” 

“ The little puss,” I could not help saying. 
“Who would ever have thought it? And yet, 
would it not be best? I pity her living with that 
old sea-dog, — that Viking in everything but his 
black mane of hair. But now, look here ; this mat- 
ter is important; let us talk it over quietly. Who 
or what is Ormsby? You have met him?” 

“Several times. He is a young Trinity man, 
good-looking, gentlemanly, correct, moral. He 
has a pension of two hundred a year, his salary 


192 My New Curate 

as Inspector of Coast Guards, and great expecta- 
tions. But he has no faith.” 

“And never had any, I suppose. That’s the 
way with all these fellows — ” 

“ On the contrary, he was brought up a strict 
Evangelical, almost a Calvinist. Then he began 
to read, and like so many others he has drifted 
into unfaith.” 

“ Well, lend him some books. He knows noth- 
ing, of course, about us. Let him see the faith, 
and he ’ll embrace it.” 

“Unfortunately, there’s the rub. He has read 
everything. He has travelled the world; and re- 
versing the venerable maxim, Ccelum> non animum 
mutant , he has taken his faith from his climate. 
He has been a Theosophist in London, a ‘New 
Light’ in ’Lrisco, as he calls it, a Moslem in Cairo 
(by the way, he thinks a lot of these Mussul- 
mans, — fine, manly, dignified fellows, he says, 
whose eloquence would bring a blush almost to 
the cheek of a member of Parliament). Then he 
has been hand in glove with Buddhist priests in 
the forests of Ceylon, and has been awfully im- 
pressed with their secret power, and still more 
with their calm philosophy. I believe,” said my 
curate, sinking his voice to a whisper of awe and 
mystery, “/ believe — he has kissed — the — tooth 
— of — Buddha ! ” 

“ Indeed,” I replied, “ and what good did that 
operation do him?” 


Holly and Ivy 193 

“Not much, I suppose, except to confirm him 
in that gospel of the sceptic : * There are more 
things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are 
dreamt of in our philosophy !’ ” 

“ Humph ! Here, then, stands the case. Our 
most interesting little parishioner has set her heart 
on this globe-trotter. There is a big wall in the 
way, and it won’t do to repeat the tragedy of 
Pyramus and Thisbe. Now, what is to be done 
to make the young fellow a Catholic? Has he 
any prejudices against us?” 

“Not one? On the contrary, he rather likes 
us. He has received all kinds of hospitality from 
Catholic priests the wide world over, and he thinks 
us a right honest, jolly lot of fellows.” 

“ H’m ! I am not sure that that is exactly what 
St. Liguori or Charles Borromeo would fancy. 
But never mind ! Now does he know what we 
hold and believe?” 

“ Accurately. He has read our best books.” 

“ Has he had any intercourse with Catholics?” 

“ A good deal. They have not impressed him. 
Look at Campion now. Would any man become 
a Catholic with his example before him?” 

“ Hardly indeed, though we must speak kindly 
of him now, since you converted him. Had you 
any chat with him about his difficulties?” 

“ Yes, several. I walked home with him a few 
evenings from Campion’s. You know that path over 
the cliff and down to the coast-guard station? ” 

13 


1 94 My New Curate 

‘‘Well. And what is his special trouble? Does 
he think he has an immortal soul?” 

“ There you struck it. That ’s his trouble ; and 
how to convince him of that beats me. I asked 
him again and again whether he was not self- 
conscious, that is, perfectly cognizant of the fact 
that there was a something, an Ego, outside and 
beyond the brain and inferior powers that com- 
manded both? Was there not some intellectual 
entity that called up memory, and bade it unseal 
its tablets? And did he not feel and know that 
he could command and control the action of his 
brain, and even of every part of it? Now, I said, 
if the brain is only dumb matter, which you admit, 
and cannot create thought, where is this volition, 
or what is it? It is not cerebral, for then matter 
would create thought ; that is, be the creator and 
the created at the same time.” 

“Well?” 

“ He listened attentively and then said quietly : 

‘ Quite true. But if the Ego is different from the 
brain and is self-conscious, where does the self- 
consciousness go when the brain becomes anae- 
mic and sleeps, or when the faculties are chloro- 
formed ? ’ ‘ Oh,’ I said, ‘ the organ is shut down, 

the stops are closed.’ ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but where 
goes the performer?’ By Jove, I was stranded. 
I tell you what it is, Father Dan, though you’ll 
call it treason, I ’ll pitch ^Eschylus to the mis- 
chief, and study what is of human and vital inter- 
est to us priests.” 


Holly and Ivy 195 

“ That little objection need n’t alarm you,” I 
said, “ you ’ll find the answer in every handbook 
of Catholic philosophy.” 

“ What manual of Catholic philosophy in Eng- 
lish could I get for Ormsby?” asked my curate. 

“Alas! my dear young friend, I don’t know. 
There is the great hiatus. You cannot put a folio 
calf-bound volume of Suarez in his hands, — he 
may not understand Latin. I know absolutely 
no book that you can put into the hands of an 
educated non-Catholic except Balmez’s 4 Letters to 
a Sceptic.’ ” 

“ He has read it > ” said my curate. 

We were both silent. 

“ Now, you know,” he continued, after a long 
pause, “ I don’t attach the least importance to 
these objections and arguments. I lived long 
enough in England to know that faith is a pure, 
absolutely pure gift of the Almighty, not to be 
acquired by learning or study, but possibly by 
prayer. I see, therefore, only one hope, and that 
is, in our Lord and His Blessed Mother.” 

“ A profound and true remark,” I replied, as he 
rose up to depart. “ Get these mites of children 
to pray, and to say the Rosary for that particular 
purpose. I can ’t understand how God can refuse 
them anything.” 

“ By the way,” he said, as he put on his great 
coat, “ it is a curious fact that, with all his incre- 
dulity, he is exceedingly superstitious. You can 


196 My New Curate 

hardly believe how troubled he is about some gib- 
berish of that old hag that sets charms for lame 
horses, etc. I ’m not at all sure but that she set 
charms in the other way for my little mare.” 

“ Well, what has she told Ormsby? ” 

“ Her language was slightly oracular. Out of 
a joke, he crossed her palm with a sixpence. She 
looked him all over, though she knew well what 
he had in his mind, examined the lines of his 
hand minutely, and then delivered three Sibyl- 
line sentences : — 

‘ Set a stout heart to a steep brae.’ 

That did not disconcert him. Then she said : — 

‘ He that tholes, overcomes.’ 

He quite agreed with her. It was a naval simile, 
and it pleased him. 

* But a white cloth and a stain never agree.’ 

He was struck as if by a blow. ‘ Mind you,’ he 
said, ‘ I am very candid. I have had my own faults 
and human weaknesses ; but I never did anything 
immoral or dishonorable. What did she mean?’ 
‘She meant,’ I said, to reassure him, ‘that you 
have kept her carefully out of the coast-guard sta- 
tion; that you have not allowed her to interfere 
with the men, or their wives, or their servants; 
that therefore you have put many a sixpence 
out of her pocket; and that she must have her 
revenge. Dismiss her jargon from your mind as 


Holly and Ivy 197 

soon as you can.’ 'More easily said than done, 
Father,’ he replied, and he then began to mutter: 
‘A white cloth and a stain never agree.’ What 
does she mean?” 

“ The old story of Voltaire,” I said, when my 
curate had finished. “ Don’t forget the children’s 
prayers.” 

On Christmas eve he called at noonday, just as 
we were going out to the midday confessional. 
He had nothing new to tell. He was rather 
gloomy. 

“You’ll meet Miss Campion in the church,” he 
said ; “ she ’ll tell you all.” 

“ I don’t think,” I said, to cheer him — for 
where is the use of fretting in this queer world ? — 
“ there was so much need for Ormsby to go as far 
as Ceylon to find Buddha and the Nirvana. Look 
there.” 

Leaning against the blank wall opposite my 
house were three silent figures. They were a 
little distance apart, and they leaned against their 
support with the composure of three cabinet min- 
isters on their green benches on the night of a 
great debate. Their feet were slightly parted, 
and they gazed on the road with a solemn, placid 
expression, as of men to whom the Atlantean 
weight of this weary world was as the down on a 
feather. Calmly and judicially, as if seeing noth- 
ing, yet weighing all things, they looked on 


198 My New Curate 

pebble and broken limestone, never raising their 
heads, never removing their hands from their 
pockets. They had been there since breakfast 
time that morning, and it was now past noon. 

“ My God,” said Father Letheby, when I told 
him, “ ’t is awful ! ” 

“ ’T is the sublime,” I said. 

“ And do you mean to tell me that they have 
never stirred from that posture for two long 
hours? ” 

“You have my word for it,” I replied; “and 
you know the opinion entertained about my ve- 
racity, — ‘ he ’d no more tell a lie than the parish 
priest.’ ” 

“ I notice it everywhere,” he said, in his impet- 
uous way. “ If I drive along the roads, my 
mare’s head is right over the car or butt, before 
the fellow wakes up to see me ; and then the ex- 
asperating coolness and deliberation with which 
he draws the reins to pull aside. My boy, too, 
when waiting on the road for a few minutes whilst 
I am attending a patient, falls fast asleep, like the 
fat boy in Pickwick ; down there, under the cliffs, 
the men sleep all day in, or under, their boats. 
Why does not Charcot send all his nervous pa- 
tients to Ireland? The air is not only a sedative, 
but a soporific. ’T is the calm of the eternal gods, 
— the sleep of the immortals.” 

“ ’T is the sleep of Enceladus in Etna,” I re- 
plied. “ When they wake up and turn, ’t is hot 
lava and ashes.” 


Holly and Ivy 199 

“That’s true, too,” he said, musingly; “we are 
a strange people.” 

My own voice again echoing out of the dead 
past. 

Miss Campion and “her friend from Dublin,” 
Miss Leslie, were very busy about the Christmas 
decorations. Mrs. Darcy helped in her own way. 
I am afraid she did not approve of all that was 
being done. Miss Campion’s and Mrs. Darcy’s 
ideas of “the beautiful” were not exactly alike. 
Miss Campion’s art is reticent and economical. 
Mrs. Darcy’s is loud and pronounced. Miss 
Campion affects mosaics and miniatures. Mrs. 
Darcy wants a circus-poster, or the canvas of a 
diorama. Where Mrs. Darcy, on former occa- 
sions, put huge limbs of holly and a tangled wil- 
derness of ivy, Miss Campion puts three or four 
dainty glistening leaves with a heart of red coral 
berries in the centre. Mrs. Darcy does not like 
it, and she thinks it her duty to art and religion 
to remonstrate. 

“ Wisha, Miss, I would n’t be sparin’ the holly 
if I was you. Sure ’t is chape.” 

“ Ah, well, now, Mrs. Darcy, don’t you think 
this looks neat and pretty?” 

“ As nate and purty as yourself, Miss; but sure 
the parish priest won’t mind the expinse. *T is 
Christmas times, and his heart is open.” 

This wasn’t too kind of Mrs. Darcy; but it 


200 


My New Curate 

does not matter. She looked ruefully at the 
fallen forest of greenery that strewed the chapel 
floor. 

Miss Campion saw her distress, and said, 
kindly : — 

“ Now, Mrs. Darcy, is there any improvement 
you would kindly suggest before we conclude?” 

“ Wisha, Miss, there isn’t much, indeed. You 
have made it lovely. But I ’d like to see a little 
bit of holly in the Blessed Virgin’s crown, and just 
a weeshy little bit in her Child’s fingers. Sure, 
whatever is going these Christmas times, them 
have the best right to it.” 

Miss Campion smiled, and yielded to the pious 
wishes of the chapel woman, and then said : — 

“ Now, Mrs. Darcy, we ’ll put a few noble 
branches around the front porch, and whatever is 
left you must take it home, and let Jemmy deco- 
rate the dresser.” 

The first suggestion met Mrs. Darcy’s tastes to 
perfection ; the second went straight to her 
mother’s heart. 

“ May God bless you, Miss ; and may it be 
many a long day till throuble or sorrow crass the 
thrishol’ of your dure.” 

The neighbors flocked in on Christmas eve to 
see Mrs. Darcy’s cabin. Jemmy had risen to 
the occasion. The polished pewter vessels and 
the brass candlesticks shone resplendent from the 
background of black holly and veined ivy, and 


20 1 


Holly and Ivy 

the red pearls of the berries. The comments, like 
all human criticisms, varied according to the sub- 
jectivity and prejudices of the visitors. 

“ Wisha, ’t is purty, indeed. God bless those 
that gave it to the poor widow.” 

“ Wisha, Jemmy, agra, there ’s no knowing wdiat 
you ’ll be when you grows up.” 

“ Wisha, thin, Mrs. Darcy, you wor always the 
good nabor. Would it be asking too much, 
ma’am, to give us thim few kippeens on the floor? 
Sure Abby says she ’d like to have a little bit of 
holly to stick round the Infant Jesus this holy and 
blessed night.” 

“ ’T is aisy for some people to be proud. Aisy 
got, aisy gone. But ’t is quare to be taking what 
ought to go to the house of God to make a 
babby-show for ourselves.” 

“ Yerra, whisht, ’uman, we must hould our 
heads as high as we can while we have it. It 
may go soon, and Mary Darcy may wish to be no 
betther thin her nabors.” 

Ah me ! Here is the great world in miniature. 

“There is not a word of news going?” I said 
to Miss Campion, as we walked up and down the 
moss-covered walk that lay to the south side of 
the little church. 

“Nothing, Father,” she said, “except, indeed, 
that father makes his Christmas Communion in 
the morning ; and oh ! I am so thankful to God 
and to Father Letheby.” 


202 My New Curate 

“ It is really good news, Beata,” I replied. I 
sometimes called her Beata, for Bittra sounds 
horrid. I intend to compromise on her wedding 
morn by calling her Beatrix. “ Really good news. 
It will add considerably to the happiness of one, 
whose only object in life appears to be to make 
every one around her happy. But there is no 
other news that may be supposed to interest in a 
far-off way the old pastor, who gave Beata her 
First Communion, and — ? ” 

She blushed crimson, and held down her head. 

“ Now,” I said, “ give your old parish priest 
your arm, for I am getting more and more feeble 
every day, and tell him all. Perhaps he could 
help you too.” 

“ Oh, Father, if you could ; but it is almost too 
much to expect from God. Perhaps I’d forget 
Him.” 

“ Not much fear of that,” I exclaimed fervently; 
“ but now let us calculate the chances.” 

“ But oh, Father, if you only knew Rex, — he 
is so good, so gentle, he takes so kindly to the 
poor, (“ the clever rascal,” I ejaculated under 
my breath,) and he likes us so much, I ’m sure 
it needs but little to make him an excellent 
Catholic.” 

Well, now, what is a poor old man to do? 
Here am I, prepared to calculate and balance 
chances of this young man’s conversion, — the 
pros and cons of a serious matter ; and here this 


Holly and Ivy 203 

young lady branches off into a magnificent apothe- 
osis of her young demigod ! What has the cold 
yellow candle light of reason to do in the camera 
obscura of the human heart? Let us fling open 
the shutters, and let in the golden sunshine. 

“ So I ’ve heard,” I said. “ And I also know 
this, Beata, that is, I Ve read something like it in 
good books, written by holy and thoughtful men, 
that the gift of faith is given freely by the Holy 
Spirit to those who, like your fiance , have led 
pure and unsullied lives.” 

She started at the word fiance ’ and the smile on 
her face was a study. Poor old Dante ! no wonder 
you walked on air, and lightly spurned the stars, 
when your lady beckoned. 

“Beatrice in suso, ed io in lei guardava.” 

So shall it be to the end. 

Well, we talked the whole thing over ; debated 
all possibilities, laughed at difficulties, cut through 
obstacles, leaped over obstructions, and, at last, 
saw in imagination, written on the cold, frosty air 
of December, the mystic legend, I Will, sur- 
rounded by a gorgeous corona of orange blossoms. 

Then, of course, the superb unreason of women. 
Beata began to cry as I handed her over to Miss 
Leslie, who looked daggers at me, and I am quite 
sure called me, in her own mind, “ A horrid old 
thing ! ” 

Father Letheby, after his unusually heavy con- 


204 My New Curate 

fessional, was jubilant. Nothing exhilarates him 
like work. Given a scanty confessional, and he is 
as gloomy as Sisyphus; given a hard, laborious 
day, and he is as bright as Ariel. He was in un- 
commonly good spirits to-day. 

“ By Jove, Father Dan,” he said, as we walked 
home together to our little bit of fish, “ I have it. 
I ’ll try him with the Kampaner Thai l ” 

“ The very thing,” I replied. 

“ Don’t you think it would do? You know he 
regards all our arguments as so much special 
pleading, and he discounts them accordingly.” 

“ Of course,” I said. “ Wonder you never 
thought of it before ! ” 

“That is curious now. But you always find 
things in unexpected quarters. But you ’re sure 
’twill do ?” 

“ Quite sure. By the way, what is the Kam- 
paner Thai?" 

He looked squarely at me. 

“ Ton my word, Father Dan, I confess I some- 
times think you are rather fond of a joke.” 

“ Come along, never mind,” I replied. “ After 
air and water, the power of a pleasant and kind 
word is the best and cheapest thing God gives 
us, His children.” 


CHAPTER XVI 


VIOLENT CONTRASTS 

Christmas Day was a day of undiluted triumph 
for Father Letheby. There were great surprises 
in store for me. That is one of my curate’s few 
faults — is it a fault? — that he is inclined to be 
dramatic. As he says, he hates to speak of a 
thing until it is beyond the reach of failure. Of 
all criticisms, the one he most dreads is, “ I told 
you so.” And so, on this Christmas morning, I 
had a series of mild, pleasant shocks, that made 
the bright, crisp, frosty, sunny morning all the 
more pleasant. It was a slight, because expected, 
surprise to see Captain Campion at the altar rails. 
He appeared at eight o’clock Mass. Thanks be 
to God ! I manage still to use the sublime privi- 
lege given by the Church that morning, of being 
allowed to celebrate three times. I have not 
omitted it for fifty years. When I shall fail to say 
my three Christmas Masses, then you may take up 
your Exequice , and practise the Requiem ceternam 
for poor Daddy Dan. 

Well, I had said the first two Masses, com- 
mencing at seven o’clock. It is a curious experi- 
ence, that of seven o’clock Mass on Christmas 


206 My New Curate 

morning. The groping through the dark, with 
just the faintest aurora on the horizon, the smell 
of the frost in the air, the crunching of icicles 
under one’s feet, the shadowy figures, making 
their way with some difficulty to the church, the 
salutations of the people: “Is that you, Mick?” 
“ ’T is, Mrs. Grady; a happy Christmas to you, 
ma’am.” “ The same to you, Mick, and manny of 
them.” “Good morning, Mrs. Mulcahy; ’t is a 
fine Christmas morning, glory be to God.” “ T is 
indeed, ma’am, glory be to His Holy Name.” 
“ Hurry up, Bess, you ’ll never catch the priest at 
the altar.” “ Yerra, sure, have n’t we three Masses 
to-day.” The more polite people said : “ The 
compliments of the saison to you, ma’am.” “ The 
same to you, sir; may we be all alive and happy 
this time twelvemonth.” 

Well, just as I commenced the hymn of the 
angels at my first Mass, there was a crash of music 
and singing from the gallery over the door, that 
made my old heart leap with joy and pride. I 
never expected it; and the soft tones of the har- 
monium, and the blending of the children’s voices, 
floating out there in the dark of the little chapel, 
made tears of delight stream down the wrinkles of 
my cheeks. And what was the Gloria , do you 
think? From Mozart’s “Twelfth Mass,” if you 
please. Nothing else would do. The pride of 
Kilronan is gone so high since that famous con- 
cert, that I am almost sure they would challenge 


Violent Contrasts 207 

the seraphim to a fair contest, that is, if the latter 
would put aside their golden viols and sambucae, 
and compete only with their voices against the 
“ new choir of Kilronan.” I violated egregiously 
one strict rubric at the Dominus vobiscum. I 
raised my eyes and took a good long look at choir 
and people. I could n’t help it. If Martinucci 
and Baruffaldi, Gavantus and Merati, Gardellini 
and Bauldry, and the whole Congregation of Sacred 
Rites were there in the front bench, I could n’t 
help myself. I kept my hands open for at least a 
quarter of a minute, whilst I surveyed my little 
congregation. It was a pathetic sight. The lights 
from the altar shone on the faces of Captain Cam- 
pion and Bittra, and one or two of the better-class 
parishioners on the front bench ; but all behind 
were buried in a deep well of darkness. I could 
barely distinguish the pale faces of the confused 
mass that stretched in the deep gloom towards the 
door; but overhead, about a dozen dark figures 
were outlined against the light of the two wax can- 
dles on the harmonium, over which, on this eventful 
morning, Father Letheby presided. And this was 
the object of the concert at last. I should have 
known that there was some supernatural object 
behind it. This young man does not care much 
to develop or elicit the dormant energies of the 
people, unless he can turn therewith the mills of 
God. But what trouble it must have given him ! 
How many a cold night did he leave his room, and 


208 My New Curate 

there, on that gallery, contend with the rough and 
irregular voices, until he brought them into that 
stream of perfect unison. I can imagine what 
patience he exercised, what subtle flatteries he ad- 
ministered, what gentle sarcasm he applied, before 
he succeeded in modulating the hoarse thunders 
of Dave Olden’s voice, that rose like a fog-horn 
over the winds and waves whenever he ventured 
upon the high seas ; and how he cut off remorse- 
lessly the grace-notes of Abby Lyden, who has 
begun to think herself an Albani ; and how he over- 
came the shyness of the fisher lads, and brought 
clear to the front the sweet tenors of the school- 
boys, on whom, he said, all his hopes depended. 
And how his own rich baritone ascended strongly 
and softly over all, blending into perfect harmony 
all discordance, and gently smothering the vagrant 
and rebellious tones that would sometimes break 
ambitiously through discipline, and try to assert 
their own individuality. He sang an Offertory 
solo, accompanying himself on the harmonium. 
Who will say it was not sweet? Who will say 
it was not appropriate? 

“O Vergine bella ! 

Del ciel Regina, 

A cui s’inchina 
La terra ed el mar. 

“O Tu che sei Stella 
Del mare si bella, 

Ci guido nal porta 
Col tuo splendor.” 


Violent Contrasts 209 

And then when Bethlehem was repeated, with 
all its lowliness and humility, there in that humble 
chapel ; and the Divine Babe lay white and spot- 
less on the corporal, the glorious Adeste broke 
forth. Ah me ! what a new experience for myself 
and people. Ah me ! what a sting of compunction 
in all the honeyed delights of that glorious morn- 
ing, to think that for all these years I had been 
pastor there. Well, never mind ; wed maximd 
culpd ! Ignosce , Domine ! 

I placed the Sacred Host on Captain Campion’s 
tongue, and most heartily forgave him his un- 
flattering epithets. Tears of joy streamed down 
Bittra’s face as she knelt beside him at the altar 
rails. I was wearied and tired from the large 
number of Communions I administered that morn- 
ing. The last communicant was poor Nance. She 
was hidden away in the deep gloom; but I am 
not at all sure that the Child Jesus did not nestle 
as comfortably in the arms of the poor penitent as 
in those of His virgins and spotless ones. And 
there were many such, thank God, amongst my 
Christmas congregation that morning. 

But the great surprise of all was in store. For, 
after Mass was over, there was a great rush to St. 
Joseph’s Chapel; and I am afraid I cut my own 
thanksgiving short, to move with silent dignity in 
the same direction. I heard gasps of surprise and 
delight, exclamations of wonder, suppressed halle- 
lujahs of joy; I saw adoration and tenderness, awe 
14 


2io My New Curate 

and love on the dimly lighted faces of the people. 
No wonder! For there, under a rough, rustic 
roof of pines and shingles, was the Bethlehem of 
our imaginations in miniature. Rough rocks lined 
the interior, wet green mosses and lichens cover- 
ing them here and there; in front of the cave 
a light hoar-frost lay on the ground, and straw 
and stubble littered the palace floor of Him who 
walks on the jasper and chalcedony parquetting of 
the floors of heaven. And there was the gentle 
Joseph, with a reverent, wondering look on his 
worn features ; and there the conscious, self- 
possessed, but adoring expression on the sweet 
face of the Child- M other ; and there the helpless 
form and pleading hands of Him whose omnip- 
otence stretches through infinity, and in whose 
fingers colossal suns and their systems are but the 
playthings of this moment in His eternal exist- 
ence, which we call Time. Three shepherds stood 
around, dazed at some sudden light that shone 
from the face of the Infant; one, a boy, leaned 
forward as if to raise in his arms that sweet, help- 
less Babe ; his hands were stretched towards the 
manger, and a string held the broad hat that fell 
between his shoulders. And aloft an angel held 
in his hand a starry scroll, on which was inscribed 
Gloria in excelsis Deo. I stood amongst my awe- 
struck congregation for a few minutes. Some 
were kneeling, and uttering half-frantic ejacula- 
tions of adoration, pity, and love; some leaned 


Violent Contrasts 2 1 1 

against a pillar, silent, but with tearful eyes ; little 
children pointed out to each other the different 
features of this new wonder-world ; but all around, 
the fervid Celtic imagination translated these terra- 
cotta figures into living and breathing personali- 
ties. It was as if God had carried them back over 
the gulf of nineteen centuries, and brought them 
to the stable door of Bethlehem that ever mem- 
orable night. I think it is this realization of the 
Incarnation that constitutes the distinguishing 
feature of Catholicity. It is the Sacred Humanity 
of our Lord that brings Him so nigh to us, and 
makes us so familiar with Him ; that makes the 
Blessed Eucharist a necessity, and makes the hie- 
rarchy of Bethlehem, Jerusalem, and Calvary so 
beloved, — beloved above all by the poor, and the 
humble, and the lowly. Listen to this ! 

“ Oh, dear, dear, and to think of our Lord with 
the straw under Him, and His feet covered with 
the frost of that cowld night — ” 

“And the poor child ! Look at her; why, she’s 
only a little girl, like Norah ; and not a woman 
near to help her in her throuble.” 

“ Look at His little hands stretched out, like 
any ordinary child. Glory be to His Holy Name. 
Sure, only for Him where ’ud we be?” 

“And poor St. Joseph! No wondher he’s 
fretting. To think of thim two cratures in his 
hands, and he not having house or home to shelter 
thim ! ” 


2 12 


My New Curate 

“ Wisha, Mary, ’t was a pity we wor n’t there 
that blessed night. Sure, ’t is we ’d give ’em the 
best we had in the world, an’ our hearts’ blood.” 

I shared to the full this feeling about St. Joseph. 
And when, after Father Letheby’s Mass, I came 
down, and brought over my old arm-chair, and 
placed it in front of the crib, and put down my 
snuff-box, and my breviary, and my spectacles, 
and gave myself up to the contemplation of that 
wonderful and pathetic drama, St. Joseph would 
insist on claiming the largest share of my pity and 
sympathy. Somehow I felt that mother and child 
understood each other perfectly, — that she saw 
everything through the eyes of God, and that 
therefore there was not much room for wonder- 
ment; but that to St. Joseph the whole thing was 
an unspeakable mystery of humiliation and love, 
infinite abasement and infinite dignity; and I 
thought I saw him looking from the child-face of 
his spouse to the child-face of the Infant, and 
somehow asking himself, “What is it all?” even 
though he explicitly understood the meaning and 
magnitude of the mighty mystery. 

Father Letheby has a new series of pictures 
of the Life of our Lord, painted by a French 
artist, whose name I can never recall except when 
I sneeze, — Tissot. I do not like them at all. 
They are too realistic, — and, after all, the ideal is 
the real. I have a special, undiluted dislike of 
one picture, — the Magnificat . I ’d have torn it 


Violent Contrasts 213 

up, and put the fragments in the fire, but that it 
was not mine. But how in the world any Catholic 
could paint my beautiful child-prophetess of He- 
bron as Tissot has done baffles comprehension. 
But he has one lovely picture, “Because there 
was no Room.” The narrow lane of the Jewish 
city, — the steep stairs to the rooms, — the blank 
walls perforated by a solitary, narrow window, — 
the rough stones, and the gentle animal that bore 
Mary, treading carefully over them, — the Jewish 
women, regretfully refusing admission, — the sweet, 
gentle face of the maiden mother, — and the pa- 
thetic, anxious, despairing look on the features of 
St. Joseph, — make this a touching and beautiful 
picture. Poor St. Joseph ! “ Come, take the 

reins of the patient animal, and lead him and his 
sacred burden out into the night ! There is no 
room in the City of David for the children of 
David. Out under the stars, shining brilliantly 
through the frosty atmosphere, over the white, 
rugged road, into an unknown country, and 
‘Whither, O my God?’ on thy lips, as the child 
at thy side shuddered, and no finger from heaven 
nor voice from earth directed thee ; unless, indeed, 
that faint flashes of light athwart the net of stars 
told thee that the angels were cutting their way 
down through the darkness, and into the spheres 
of men, and that all heaven was in a tumult of 
expectation, whilst in yonder city men slept, as 
they always sleep unconscious when God is near. 


214 My New Curate 

And then, when the feeble plaint broke from Mary’s 
lips, I cannot go further, and the gentle beast 
turned aside into the rocks and whins, and called 
to his companions of the stable, and the meek- 
eyed ox looked calmly at the intruders, and there 
— there — dear God ! to think of it all — In mnndo 
erat y et mundus eum non cognovit .” 

I sat quietly there until Benediction at three 
o’clock, and then I remained rolling my beads 
through my fingers, and singing in my heart the 
grand majestic O’s of the preceding day’s offices, 
at the end of every decade, until five o’clock struck. 
From time to time my little children would come, 
and leaning on my knee, would gaze with wonder 
and affection at the Child of Bethlehem ; and then, 
looking up into my face, put wonderful questions 
about deep mysteries to their old Father. For all 
day long, a stream of visitors passed before the 
crib; and the next day, and the next, crowds 
trooped over from Moydore and the neighboring 
parishes, for the fame of it had gone abroad over 
the land ; and men and women came, jealous of 
their own pastors, and wondering at the sudden 
uprise of Kilronan. Then the climax was reached 
on the twelfth day, when the Kings appeared, 
and the group in the stable was complete. The 
“black man” from Nubia came in for more than 
his share of honors; and it was admitted all 
round that Kilronan was immortalized and the 
other parishes were forever in the background. 


Violent Contrasts 215 

“ May God bless the man that gave us such a 
sight,” said an old woman fervently, as I left the 
wondering crowd and went home to dinner. 

“ May God bless all our priests,” said another, 
fearing that I might be offended. 

“ Wisha, thin, Father Dan,” said a third, “what 
a wondher you never tould us what you had in 
store for us. Wisha, thin, it was n’t worth while 
keeping it such a grate sacret.” 

There is no end to the ingenious charity of these 
people. On my plate at the dinner table, amidst 
a pile of Christmas cards, was a dainty little duo- 
decimo. I took it up. It was from Father Letheby. 
And what was it? The Imitation in Greek, by a 
certain George Mayr, S. J. Wasn’t this nice? 
My pet book done into my favorite language ! It 
was the happiest Christmas I ever spent. Quam 
bonus Israel Deus ! So too said Father Letheby. 
But I had some dim presentiment that all his well- 
merited pleasure would not be quite unalloyed, — 
that some secret hand, perhaps a merciful one, 
would pluck a laurel leaf or two from his crown. 
We had a pleasant academic discussion after din- 
ner about the honorable retention of ancient Irish 
customs, — he quite enthusiastic about them, I 
rather disposed to think that the abuses which 
invariably accompanied them made their final 
extinction altogether advisable. We put our 
respective theories in practice next morning with 
the most perfect consistency; for Hannah drove 


216 My New Curate 

indignantly from the door the wren-boys, just as 
they were commencing: 

“ A thrate, a thrate, if of the best, 

We hope in heaven your sowl will rest ; 

But if you give it of the small 
It won’t agree with our boys at all.” 

And, on his part, Father Letheby listened with 
intense delight to this dithyrambic, which ushers 
in St. Stephen’s day all over Ireland ; and he dis- 
pensed sundry sixpences to the boys with the 
injunction to be always good Irishmen and to buy 
sweets. 

That night, just as I was thinking of retiring, 
for I am an early riser, I heard a gentle tap at 
the hall door, then a hurried colloguing in 
the hall ; and Hannah put in her head and 
whispered : — 

“ Lizzie is afraid, sir, that the priest is sick. 
Would you mind coming down to see him?” 

“ God bless me ! no,” I said, quite alarmed. I 
followed the servant rapidly and was ushered into 
Father Letheby’s parlor, unexpected and almost 
unannounced. 

“What’s the matter, sir?” he cried; “what’s 
the matter?” 

“Nothing particular,” I replied. “ ’T is a rather 
fine night, is it not?” 

“Lizzie must have sent for you?” he answered. 

“ Yes,” I said, “ she did. She thought you were 
unwell. Are you?” 


Violent Contrasts 217 

He looked ill enough, poor fellow, and at these 
words he sank wearily into a chair. 

“ I am afraid you ’re unwell,” I repeated. 

“ I ’m not unwell,” he said, blubbering like a 
child, “but — but — my heart is broken.” 

“ Oh,” I cried, “ if that’s all, it ’s easily mended. 
Come now, let ’s hear all, and see if we can’t put 
the pieces together.” 

“ I would n’t mind,” he cried, standing up and 
striding along the little room, his hands tightly 
clasped behind his back, “but the poor little 
altar boys — the poor little beggars — they looked 
so nice yesterday, and oh to think of it ! Good 
God ! ” 

“ Very dramatic, very dramatic,” I said, “ but 
not the quiet narrative and consecutive style that 
I affect. Now, supposing you told me the story. 
There ’s balm in Gilead yet.” 

And this was the story, told with much impres- 
siveness, a fair amount of gesticulation, and one or 
two little profane expressions, which made the 
Recording Angel cough and look away to see how 
was the weather. 

It appears that about seven o’clock Father 
Letheby had a sick-call outside the village. There 
are generally a fair share of sick-calls on the day 
succeeding the great festivity, for obvious reasons. 
He was returning home through the village, when 
the sound of singing arrested his steps just outside 
Mrs. Haley’s public house. His heart gave a 


218 My New Curate 

bound of delight as he heard the familiar lines and 
notes of the Adeste. “ Thank God ! ” he said, “ at 
last, the people are beginning to bring our Catholic 
hymns into their own homes.” As he listened 
intently there was a slight reaction as he recog- 
nized the sweet liquid notes, with all the curls and 
quavers that are the copyright and strictly legal 
and exclusive possession of Jem Deady. 

“ Good heavens ! ” said the young priest, in a 
frenzy of indignation, “ has that ruffian dared to in- 
troduce into the taproom our Christmas melodies, 
and to degrade them into a public-house chorus?” 

He stepped into the shop. There was no one 
there. He turned softly the handle of the door, 
and was in the taproom for several minutes before 
he was recognized. What he witnessed was this. 
Leaning in a tipsy, maudlin way against the wall 
were the holly bushes, which, decorated with pink 
ribbons, and supposed to conceal in their dim 
recesses the “ wren, the wren, the king of all 
birds,” had been the great attraction of the morn- 
ing. Leaning on the deal table, with glasses and 
pints of porter before them, as they sat and lounged 
or fell in various stages of intoxication, were the 
wren-boys ; and near the fire, with his back turned 
to the door, and his fingers beating time to the 
music in pools of dirty porter, was Jem Deady. 
As Father Letheby entered he was singing: — 

“ Deum de Deo, Lumen de Lumine, 

Gestant puellae viscera — ” 


Violent Contrasts 219 

the most awful and tender lines of the glorious 
hymn. 

He was unconscious of the priest’s presence, and 
quite unconscious of his horrible sacrilege. Father 
Letheby continued gazing on the sad scene for a 
few minutes, with mingled feelings of anger, hor- 
ror, and disgust. Then, closing the door softly 
after him, he strode through the street, and knock- 
ing peremptorily at all the doors, he soon had a 
procession of the fathers and mothers of the 
children following him to the public house. What 
occurred then has passed into the historical annals 
of Kilronan. It is enough to say here that its good 
people heard that night certain things which made 
their ears tingle for many a day. Mrs. Haley 
came up to my house the following morning to 
give up her license ; and there was a general feel- 
ing abroad that every man, woman, and child in 
Kilronan should become total abstainers for life. 

“But that’s all,” said Father Letheby; “and 
now I am really sick of the entire business; and 
to-morrow I shall write to the Bishop for my exeat , 
and return to England or go to Australia, where I 
have been promised a mission.” 

It was rather late, and I should have been long 
ago in my comfortable bed ; but the text was too 
good to miss. 

“ My dear Father Letheby,” I said, “ it is clear 
to me that you are working not for God’s honor, 
but for your own kudos .” 


220 


My New Curate 

He started at these strong words, and stared at 
me. 

“ Because,” I continued calmly, “ if it was the 
honor of God you had at heart, this calamity, the 
intensity of which I have no idea of minimizing, 
would have stimulated you to fresh efforts instead 
of plunging you into despair. But your pride is 
touched and your honor is tarnished, and you 
dread the criticism of men. Tell me honestly, are 
you grieved because God has been offended, or 
because all your fine plans have ganged aglee f 
There ! Dear St. Bonaventure, what a burden you 
laid on the shoulders of poor humanity when you 
said, Ama nesciri , et pro nihilo reputari. You did 
not know, in the depths of your humility, that 
each of us has a pretty little gilded idol which is 
labelled Self ! And that each of us is a fanatic in 
seeking to make conversions to our own little god. 
And I am not at all sure but that education only 
helps us to put on a little more gilding and a little 
more tawdry finery on our hidden deity; and that 
even when we sit in judgment upon him, as we do 
when preparing for Confession, it is often as a 
gentle and doting mother, not as an inflexible and 
impartial judge. Here are you now (turning to 
Father Letheby), a good, estimable, zealous, and 
successful priest; and because you have been 
touched in a sore point, lo ! the voice from the 
inner shrine demanding compensation and future 
immunity. Everything has prospered with you. 


Violent Contrasts 22 I 

Religion has progressed, with leaps and bounds, 
since you came to the parish; the people adore 
you, and you have the satisfaction of knowing that 
you are that most difficult of heroic successes, a 
conqueror because a reformer; and because you 
have met one reverse, you are going to turn your 
back on your work, and seek the curse of those 
who put pillows under their armpits and garlands of 
roses in their hair. Did you imagine that Satan, 
a living, personal, and highly intelligent force, was 
going to allow you to have everything your own 
way here, — to fold his arms while you were driv- 
ing back his forces in utter rout and confusion? 
If you did, you were greatly mistaken. You have 
met a slight reverse, and it has become a panic. 
Sauve qui pent ! And the commander — the suc- 
cessful general — is the first to turn his back, 
throw down his sword, and flee.” 

“ Say no more, Father Dan, for God’s sake. I 
am heartily ashamed of myself.” 

A good scolding is almost equal to a cold bath 
as a tonic for disordered nerves. 

I went home with a satisfied conscience, mur- 
muring, Per la impacciata via , retro al suo duce . 
I think I know whither he is tending. 

A demoralized, woe-begone, wilted, helpless fig- 
ure was before me in the hall. If he had been 
under Niagara for the last few hours he could 
not be more hopelessly washed out. It was Jem 
Deady in the custody of his wife, who was now in 
the ascendant. 


222 


My New Curate 

“ Here he is, your reverence, — a misfortunate 
angashore ! For the love of God make him now 
a patthern to the parish ! Cling him to the 
ground, or turn him into somethin’ ; make him 
an example forever, for my heart is broke with 
him.” 

Whilst I was turning over in my mind into 
which of the lower animals it would be advisable 
to cause the immortal soul of Jem to transmigrate 
and take up a temporary residence, I thought I 
saw a glance upwards from his eye, visibly plead- 
ing for mercy. 

“It is quite clear, Jem,” I said, “that your 
Christmas dinner disagreed with you.” 

“ Begor, thin, your reverence,” broke in Mrs. 
Deady, setting herself in a rather defiant attitude, 
“ he had as good a dinner as any poor man in 
your parish. He had a roast goose, stuffed by 
thim two hands with praties and inguns, until the 
tears ran down my face ; and he had a pig’s cheek, 
and lashins of cabbage.” 

“ And why don’t you tell his reverence about 
the rice puddin’?” said Jem, in a tone of honest 
indignation. “ ’T is a shame for you, Bess ! She 
made a rice puddin’, your reverence, that was fit 
for the Grate House ; and begor, your reverence 
might sit down to worse yourself. Sich raisons 
and currans ! ” 

“ Begor, I ’m thinking you ’re thrying to put the 
comedher on me, you blagard, with your blarney,” 


Violent Contrasts 223 

said Mrs. Deady with angry suspicion, drawing 
back and scrutinizing his face. 

“ Thrying to put the comedher on you , Bess? 
Begor, I ’d like to see the man that could do it. 
But I ’ll say this, in the presence of his reverence, 



“ And why don’t you tell his reverence about the rice puddin ’ ? ” 


and wid yerself to the fore, that there is n’t in this 
parish, nor in the nex’, nor in the nex’ again, nor 
widin the four walls of Ireland, a betther wife nor 
a betther housekeeper den you, Bess Clancy.” 
And to emphasize this panegyric, Jem threw his 
battered hat on the floor and brushed away a tear. 


224 My New Curate 

It was a pity not to come to the aid of such a 
superb diplomatist. No wonder the British diplo- 
matic service is manned by Irishmen from Sin- 
gapore to Halifax. What would Melikoff, and 
Von Schaffterhausen, and De Laborie be in the 
hands of Jem Deady? He’d twist them around 
his little finger. I saw the angry wrinkles smooth- 
ing themselves on the brow of Mrs. Deady, as she 
melted under the gentle rain of flattery. 

“ I ’d forgive you a good deal, Deady,” I said ; 
“ your repeated violations of solemn pledges, your 
sacrilege in bringing down to a public house the 
most sacred melodies of the Church — ” 

“They were at me,” said Jem. “ They said as 
how I could n’t get my tongue around the Latin, 
and that Father Letheby — ” 

“ I understand,” I interrupted ; “ but even that 
I ’d forgive. But to take the innocent lambs of 
my flock, my choir boys and altar boys, the chil- 
dren of sober and religious parents, whose hearts 
are broken by your misconduct — ” 

“ Childre’ of sober and religious parents, — 
whose hearts are broken,” chimed in Mrs. Deady. 
“Wisha, thin, without manin’ any disrespect to 
your riverence, would you be plazed to mintion 
these dacent people ? An’ if these religious parents 
wor mindin’ their childre’, insted of colloguing 
and placin’ their nabors, their religious childre’ 
would n’t be lying drunk in Mrs. Haley’s public 
house. But of coorse ’tis Jim Deady here and 


Violent Contrasts 225 

Jim Deady there; and if the thruth wos towld, 
he ’s as good as any of ’em, though I shouldn’t 
say it to his face. Come along, you poor fool.” 

“ I must do what I came for,” said Jem, solemnly. 
Then, with an air of awful determination, as if he 
were binding iron bars and padlocks on his thirsty 
lips, Jem took the pledge. Mrs. Deady, in high 
dudgeon, had gone down the street. Jem and I 
were alone. 

“ Tell me, yer reverence,” he whispered, “ did 
that mane scut of a tailor insult ye the other 
night? ” 

“ Oh, not at all, Jem,” I cried, fearing the con- 
sequences to the tailor. 

“ I have an eye on him this long time,” said 
Jem, “and faith, he’ll come to grief soon.” 

“Now, Jem,” I warned emphatically, “ no vio- 
lence, mind. The unfortunate fellow is sorry.” 

“ All right, your reverence ; we are not going to 
waste violence on the likes of him. But — ” 

Here Jem fell into a profound reverie. 

“ Begor, your reverence, ye did that little job 
nately,” he cried, waking up. “ That woman’s 
tongue did n’t lave me worth tuppence. God 
bless yer reverence, and spare ye long to us.” 

He took my hand, and kissed it till it was blis- 
tered by the sharp bristles of his unshaven lips. 
Poor fellows ! how they warm to us ! and how, 
with all their faults, we fling around them some- 
thing more than maternal love! 

*5 


CHAPTER XVII 


A CLERICAL SYMPOSIUM 

THERE is no law, supernatural or natural, forbid- 
ding us (who, if we have not many of the crosses, 
neither have we many of the pleasures of this 
life) from meeting sometimes, and carrying out St. 
Paul’s prescriptions in the matter of hospitality. 
I believe, indeed, his words — and he was a wise, 
kind saint — apply principally to bishops; but 
why should not we imitate our superiors afar off, 
and practise the kindly virtue? It is good to meet 
sometimes and exchange opinions ; it softens the 
asperities of daily life, makes the young think rev- 
erently of the old, and the old charitably of the 
young. At least, these are my views, and acting 
upon them there is always an open door and a 
Cead Mitt Failte for a brother ; and a few times 
in the year I try to gather around me my dear 
friends, and thus to cement those bonds of friend- 
ship that make life a little more pleasant, and, 
perhaps, may keep our memories green. Some- 
times, indeed, my dear old friends object to face a 
drive of eight or ten miles on a cold night in win- 
ter; but the young fellows always come. Noth- 
ing but extreme urgency would keep them away 


A Clerical Symposium 227 

from an evening with Daddy Dan. Now, we have 
no nonsense, — no soups, nor entrees, which some 
of my more fashionable confreres are at present 
affecting, if you please; but a plain turkey and 
ham, and a roast leg of mutton, and a few little 
trimmings to fill up vacant spaces. There is an 
old tradition, too, in Ireland, which I keep to 
pretty closely, — never to invite more than the 
Muses, nor less than the Graces; but on this 
occasion — it was during the Octave of the Epiph- 
any — I departed from the custom, and, owing 
to a few disappointments, the ominous number of 
thirteen sat down to dinner. I must say, how- 
ever, it had not a paralyzing effect on the appe- 
tites of my guests, nor did they appear to have 
any apprehensions of a sudden call to the places 
where turkeys and good mutton are not appreci- 
ated. There were a few jokes about the intoler- 
able longevity of certain parish priests; and when 
my curate, who occupied the vice-chair with infi- 
nite grace and dignity, remarked in his own grand 
style that “ really Da Vinci’s ‘ Last Supper ’ was 
responsible for that unhallowed superstition, and 
there really was nothing in it,” some few wags 
professed themselves greatly relieved, and showed 
it by new-born zeal in the avocations of the even- 
ing. My duties as host engrossed all my atten- 
tion, until the table was cleared for action; and 
the call for coffee from eight out of thirteen guests 
recalled me to my favorite meditation on the 


228 My New Curate 

mighty yet silent revolution that is progressing 
in the Irish Church. 

I have been now in touch with three genera- 
tions of Irish priests, each as distinct from the 
other, and marked by as distinctive characteris- 
tics, as those which differentiate an Anglican par- 
son from a mediaeval monk. My early education 
was colored by contact with the polished, studious, 
timid priests, who, educated in Continental semi- 
naries, introduced into Ireland all the grace and 
dignity and holiness, and all the dread of secular 
authority with the slight tendency to compromise, 
that seemed to have marked the French clergy, 
at least in the years immediately succeeding the 
revolutions and the Napoleonic wars. These were 
the good men who fraternized with landlords, and 
lent their congregations to a neighboring parson 
on the occasion of some governmental visitation ; 
who were slightly tinged with Gallican ideas, and 
hated progress and the troubles that always ac- 
company it. They were holy, good, kindly men, 
but they could hardly be called officers of the 
Church Militant. Then came Maynooth, which, 
founded on governmental subsidies, poured from 
its gates the strongest, fiercest, most fearless army 
of priests that ever fought for the spiritual and 
temporal interests of the people, — men of large 
physique and iron constitutions, who spent ten 
hours a day on horseback, despised French claret, 
loved their people and chastised them like fathers, 


A Clerical Symposium 229 

but were prepared to defend them with their 
lives and the outpouring of their blood against 
their hereditary enemies. Intense in their faith, of 
stainless lives and spotless reputations, their words 
cut like razors, and their hands smote like light- 
ning ; but they had the hearts of mothers for the 
little ones of their flocks. They had the classics 
at their fingers’ ends, could roll out lines from 
Virgil or Horace at an after-dinner speech, and 
had a profound contempt for English literature. 
In theology they were rigorists, too much disposed 
to defer absolution and to give long penances. 
They had a cordial dislike for new devotions, be- 
lieving that Christmas and Easter Communion was 
quite enough for ordinary sancity. Later on they 
became more generous, but they clung with tena- 
city to the Brown Scapular and the First Sunday 
of the month. I am quite sure they have turned 
somersaults in their graves since the introduction 
of the myriad devotions that are now distracting 
and edifying the faithful. But they could make, 
and, alas ! too often perhaps for Christian mod- 
esty, they did make, the proud boast that they 
kept alive the people’s faith, imbued them with a 
sense of the loftiest morality, and instilled a sense 
of intense horror for such violations of Church pre- 
cepts as a communicatio cum hereticis in divinis , 
or the touching of flesh meat on a day of absti- 
nence. I believe I belong to that school, though 
my sympathies are wide enough for all. And 


230 My New Curate 

as in theology, I am quite prepared to embrace 
Thomists, and Scotists, and Molinists, Nominalists 
and Realists in fraternal charity, so, too, am I 
prepared to recognize and appreciate the traits 
and characteristics of the different generations of 
clerics in the Irish Church. Sometimes, perhaps, 
through the vanity that clings to us all to the end, 
I play the part of “ laudator temporis acti,” and 
then the young fellows shout : — 

“Ah, but, Father Dan, they were giants in those 
days.” 

And the tags and shreds of poor human nature 
wave in the wind of flattery ; and I feel grateful 
for the modest appreciation of a generation that 
has no sympathy with our own. 

Then, down there, below the water-line of gray 
heads is the coming generation of Irish priests, 
who, like the Xa/jL7raSrjcf)6poL of old in the Athenian 
games, will take the torch of faith from our hands 
and carry it to the Acropolis of Heaven, — clean- 
cut, small of stature, keen-faced, bicycle-riding, 
coffee-drinking, encyclopaedic young fellows, who 
will give a good account of themselves, I think, in 
the battles of the near future. It is highly amus- 
ing to a disinterested spectator, like myself, to 
watch the tolerant contempt with which the older 
generation regards the younger. They have as 
much contempt for coffee as for ceremonies, and 
I think their mistakes in the latter would form a 
handsome volume of errata , or add another ap- 


A Clerical Symposium 231 

pendix to our valuable compendiums. To ask 
one of these old men to pass a cup of coffee is 
equivalent to asking a Hebrew of the strict ob- 
servance to carve a ham, or a Hindoo to eat from 
the same dish with a Christian. And many other 
objects that the passing generation held in high 
esteem are “ gods of the Gentiles ” to the younger. 
They laugh profanely at that aureole of distinc- 
tion that used hang around the heads of success- 
ful students, declaring that a man’s education only 
commences when he leaves college, and that his 
academical training was but the sword exercise of 
the gymnasium ; and they speak dreadful things 
about evolution and modern interpretation, and 
the new methods of hermeneutics, and polychrome 
Bibles ; and they laugh at the idea of the world’s 
creation in six days ; and altogether, they disturb 
and disquiet the dreams of the staid and stately 
veterans of the Famine years, and make them 
forecast a dismal future for Ireland when German 
metaphysics and coffee will first impair, and then 
destroy, the sacred traditions of Irish faith. And 
yet, these young priests inherit the best elements 
of the grand inheritance that has come down to 
them. Their passionate devotion to their faith is 
only rivalled by their passionate devotion to the 
Motherland. Every one of them belongs to that 
great world-wide organization of Priests Adorers, 
which, cradled in the dying years of our century, 
will grow to a gigantic stature in the next; for 


232 My New Curate 

at last it has dawned upon the world that around 
this sacred doctrine and devotion, as around an 
oriflamme, the great battles of the twentieth cen- 
tury will rage. And they have as tender and pas- 
sionate a love for the solitary isle in the wintry 
western seas as ever brought a film to the eyes 
of exile, or lighted the battle fires in the hearts 
of her heroes and kings. And with all my ancient 
prejudices in favor of my own caste, I see clearly 
that the equipments of the new generation are 
best suited to modern needs. The bugle-call of 
the future will sound the retreat for the ancient 
cavalry and the Old Guard, and sing out, For- 
ward the Light Brigade ! 

This evening, as usual, the conversation was 
discursive. It ranged over the whole area of 
human knowledge and experience, from the price 
of a horse to Lehmkuhl’s Latinity, and from the 
last political speech to the everlasting question, 
ever discussed and never decided, What is meant 
by the month’s residence as a condition for the 
acquisition of a domicile? That horrible drug was 
irritating the nerves of the younger men, until I 
heard, as in a dream, a Babel of voices : — “ The 
two Ballerini,” — “ They ’ll never arrest him,” — 
“He’ll certainly fire on the people,” — “Daniel 
never wrote that book, I tell you,” — “ ’T is only a 
ringbone,” — “ Fifty times worse than a sprain,” 
— “ He got it in the Gregorian University,” — 
“ Paddy Murray, George Crolly,” — “I admire 


A Clerical Symposium 233 

Balfour for his profound knowledge of meta- 
physics,” — “ Did you see the article in the Record 
about the Spanish dispensation? ” — “ He ’s got a 
first-class mission in Ballarat,” — “No, the lessons 
were from the Scripture occurring,” — “I don’t 
think we ’re bound to these Masses,” — “ ’T was a 
fine sermon, but too flowery for my tastes,” — 
“Yes, we expect a good Shrove this year,” — 
“ His Data of Ethics won’t stand examination,” 

— “ Our fellows will lick yours well next time,” 

— “ Picking the grapes and lemons at Tivoli,” — 
“ Poor old Kirby, what an age he is,” — “ * Twilight 
and evening bell, and after that the dark, And may 
there be no sadness of farewell, when I embark,’ 
that’s the way it runs,” — “ He cut in his physic 
year, and is running a paper in Boston,” — “ It is 
up now to thirty-five shillings a ton, and will go 
higher,” etc., etc. The older men, under the 
more kindly influence, were calm as sophomores. 
Amidst the whirlpool of words, they clung to two 
sheet-anchors, — O’Connell in politics, and St. 
Alphonsus in theology. 

At last, the conversation simmered down into 
an academic debate, whether the centripetal sys- 
tem, which concentrates all Irish students in 
Maynooth, or the centrifugal, which sends them 
scampering over the Continent to the ancient 
universities, was the better. This was a calm, 
judicious tournament, except now and again, when 
I had to touch the gong, and say : — 


234 My New Curate 

“ Gentlemen, only three at a time, if you please.” 

It was a curious thing to notice that those who 
had studied in Maynooth were very much in favor 
of a Continental education ; and those who had 
been in foreign universities were rather inclined to 
give the verdict for Maynooth. 

“ You see,” said one, “ it is an education in 
itself to go abroad. It means expansion, and 
expansion is education. Then you have the 
immense advantage of being able to learn and 
master the foreign languages and literature, and 
nowadays a man that can’t speak French at least 
is a very helpless creature.” 

“You take it for granted,” replied another, 
“ that residence abroad insures a knowledge of 
French. I spent six years in the seminary at 

N , and except cela va sans dire , tant pis , and 

a few other colloquialisms, which you will find on 
the last page of an English dictionary, I might as 
well have been in Timbuctoo.” 

“ Well,” said my curate, — and though he is 
not very popular, somehow or other his words 
appear to carry great weight, — “I must confess 
that the regret of my life is that I had not an 
opportunity of studying in Rome, just as the hope 
of my life is that I shall see Rome before I die. 
I consider that the greatest Irish college in the 
world, in numbers and in the influence that arises 
from intellectual superiority, should be somewhere 
within the shadows of the Seven Hills.” 


A Clerical Symposium 235 

“ Why not transfer the Dunboyne, with all its 
endowments and emoluments, to Rome ? ” asked 
a young, eager fellow, who says he can read the 
Office, going ten miles an hour on the bicycle. 

“’T wouldn’t ever do,” said a Roman student; 
“you must be brought up in Rome to under- 
stand its spirit. Transplanted shoots never thrive 
there.” 

“ Psha ! ” said an old Maynooth man, who had 
been listening impatiently to these suggestions; 
“ we forgot more theology in Maynooth than you 
ever learned.” 

“ I don’t want to disparage your knowledge of 
theology, Father,” said my curate, sweetly, “ but 
you know there are other elements in priestly 
education besides the mere propositions, and the 
solvuntur objecta of theology. And it is in Rome 
these subtle and almost intangible accomplish- 
ments are acquired.” 

Now, this was' getting a little warm ; so I winked 

a young fellow down along the table, and he 
took the hint promptly, and cried out : “ Look 
here, Father Dan, this is tiresome. Tell us how 
you managed the Irish Brigade in France in the 
fifties. Were n’t they going to throw Marseilles 
into the sea?” 

“ Now, now,” said I, “ that won’t do. I ’m not 
going to be trotting out that old chestnut at every 
dinner party. Let us have a song ! ” 

And we had, and a good many of them, — dear, 


236 My New Curate 

old Irish melodies that would melt an icicle and 
put blood into a marble statue. No nonsense at 
my table, I assure you. No operatic rubbish, but 
genuine Irish music, with the right lilt and the right 
sentiment. I did let a young fellow once sing, 
“ I Dreamt that I Dwelt in Marble Halls ” ; but I 
told him never to repeat it. But it was worth 
while going miles to hear my curate singing, in 
his own fine voice, that superb ballad of that 
true and gentle patriot, Thomas Davis, “ The 
Mess-tent is Full, and the Glasses are Set.” 

Dear me ! what a mercurial race we are ; and 
how the mercury runs up and down in the ba- 
rometer of our human hearts ! I could see the 
young priests’ faces whitening at the words : 

“God prosper old Ireland ! You ’d think them afraid, 

So pale grew the chiefs of the Irish Brigade ! ” 

and softening out in lines of tenderness when the 
end came: 

“ For, on far foreign fields, from Dunkirk to Belgrade, 

Lie the soldiers and chiefs of the Irish Brigade.” 

Then we had “The West’s Awake,” and “Dear 
Land,” and then we all arose and sang together, 
“ God bless the Pope, the great, the good.” I 
was going to say “ sang in unison,” but I am 
afraid I should be trespassing on the sacred pre- 
cincts of truth; yet if that grand old man in 
Rome, that electric spark in the vase of alabaster, 
sitting in that lonely chamber, behind the long, 


A Clerical Symposium 237 

empty, gas-lit state apartments, could hear those 
voices there above the western seas, he would 
surely realize more keenly what he understands 
already, that he can always call upon his Irish 
reserves to ring, as with a fence of steel, the chair 
and the prerogatives of Peter. 

Then came the “ Good nights.” I pulled aside 
an old friend, a great theologian, who has all kinds 
of musty, dusty, leather-bound, water-stained vol- 
umes on his shelves. 

“ Did you ever hear,” I whispered, “ of a mys- 
terious thing, called the Kampaner Thai ?” 

“ Never,” he said, emphatically. 

“You could n’t conjecture what it is? ” 

“ No,” he said, with deliberation ; “ but I can 
aver it is neither Greek, Latin, nor Irish.” 

“ Would you mind looking up your cyclo- 
paedias,” I pleaded, “ and letting me know im- 
mediately that you find it?” 

“ Of course,” he replied. Then, jerking his 
thumb over his shoulder : “ I suppose it is this 
chap ? ” 

“ It is,” I said. “ He reads a good deal — ” 

“ Look here, Father Dan, I don’t know what 
we ’re coming to. Did you ever see such a sight 
as that table to-night ? ” 

“Never,” I replied, resignedly. 

“ Would any one believe, when we came on the 
mission, that we ’d live to see such things? Why, 
these fellows talk up to us as if we were their 


238 My New Curate 

equals. Don’t you remember when a curate 
dare n’t open his mouth at table ? ” 

“ Of course,” I replied, demurely. 

“ And it is only now I am beginning to dis- 
cover the vagaries of this chap of mine. Do you 
know what he wants? A shrine, if you please, — 
some kind of picture, with candles lighting before 
it all day. ‘ Can’t you say your Rosary,’ I said, 
‘like your betters?’ No, he should have the 
shrine. And now he wants to force on Benedic- 
tion every Sunday, — not every first Sunday of 
the month, but every Sunday, if you please. And 
he has a big red lamp, burning in what he calls 
his oratory. You can see it miles away. I say 
to the boys, ‘ Don’t be afraid to put to sea at 
night now, boys. Begor, ye ’ve got a lighthouse 
at last.’ Well, good by ! What ’s this thing you 
want? ” 

And he jotted down the name, I presume pho- 
netically, in his note-book. Now, mind, that man 
has not had a scandal in his parish for fourteen 
years ; and he is up to his neck in securities for 
half the farmers of the district. 

All this time, shrinking into an obscure corner 
of the hall, was my Cure d’Ars, as I call him. He 
now came forward to say good night, his thin face 
wreathed in smiles, and his two hands stretched 
out in thankfulness. 

“ Good night, Father Dan, and a thousand thanks. 
I never spent a pleasanter evening. What fine 


A Clerical Symposium 239 

young fellows ! So clever, so jolly, and so 
edifying ! Won’t it be a satisfaction for us when 
we are going to leave behind us such splendid 
safeguards of the faith? ” 

His curate was waiting respectfully. He now 
got the little man into his great-coat, and buttoned 
it from collar to boot, the latter murmuring his 
thanks all the time : — 

“ Dear me ! dear me ! what a trouble I am ! 
Many thanks ! Many thanks ! There, now I am 
all right ! ” 

Then his muffler was wrapped carefully around 
his neck by this big grenadier, and his gloves were 
drawn over his hands. 

“ Dear me ! dear me ! how good ! how kind ! 
I ’m a regular mummy ! a real Egyptian mummy, 
Father Dan ! Good night ! good night ! Dear me, 
what a pleasant gathering ! ” 

And the stalwart curate lifted him on his car, as 
if he were an infant. 

A few days later we had a long chat over many 
things, I and my curate. 

When he was going he said : — 

“ That was a real jolly evening, Father Dan ! 
I never enjoyed anything so much ! ” 

“ Yes,” I said, “ and you had a splendid audience 
for that noble song ! ” 

“ Yes, indeed ; they were very kind.” 

“ Oh, I don’t mean in foro interno ,” I said, “ but 


240 My New Curate 

in foro externo. There was a good crowd outside 
the window ! ” 

“ My God ! ” he cried, quite shocked. “ What 
a scandal ! ” 

“ Not a bit of it,” I said ; “ you ’ve gone up a 
hundred per cent in the estimation of the villagers. 
There was a real fight for the window-sill. But 
your friend, Jem Deady, captured it.” 

He looked dreadfully annoyed. 

" Jem says that he kept awake all night trying 
to remember the notes ; and if you ’d give him the 
words of the song and whistle it — ” 

“ What ! ” said Father Letheby, like a pistol-shot. 

“ And if you ’d give him two or three audiences 
— I suppose he means rehearsals on the piano — 
he is quite sure — ” 

! ! ! ! ! ! 

Dear me ! how some people despise popularity ! 


CHAPTER XVIII 


THE KAMPANER THAL 

Events are thickening around me these winter 
days; and much oftener than in past years am I 
compelled to lay aside my pet authors, when my 
lamp is lighted, and my fire is sparkling merrily, 
whilst the earth is waking up from its winter’s sleep, 
and stretching out its hands in the feeble length- 
ening of the evenings towards the approaching 
spring. This evening I had an unexpected visitor, 
— no less a person than Reginald Ormsby, the 
betrothed of Bittra. He came in modestly and 
apologetically, with all that gentlemanly deference 
that is so characteristic of the British officer. He 
made a nice little speech, explaining his reasons 
for visiting me so late, and mildly deprecating the 
anger of such a potentate as the parish priest of 
Kilronan. I had pulled the bell in the mean time, 
and Hannah had brought in the “ materials” ; and 
in reply to his pretty eloquence, I merely pushed 
the decanter towards him, and said : — 

“ Go ahead ! ” 

He filled his wine-glass with a firm hand, until 
the blessed liquor made an arc of a circle on the 
summit; then tilted it over into the tumbler, with- 
16 


242 My New Curate 

out spilling a drop, then filled the tumbler to the 
top with hot water, and I said in my own mind, 
“ He ’ll do.” 

“ Of course,” I said, after this little ceremony 
had been proceeded with, “you smoke? ” 

“ I should n’t venture to think of smoking in 
your pretty parlor, sir,” said he. “ You know cigar 
smoke hangs around the curtains for days, and — ” 
“ Never mind the curtains,” I replied. “ I don’t 
keep Havanas here, though I suppose we must 
soon, as that appears to be a constituent in the 
new education to which we old fossils are being 
subjected. But if you have a cigar-case about you, 
light up, like a good fellow. You have to say 
something of importance, I think, and they say a 
cigar promotes easy and consecutive thought.” 

“ Very many thanks, sir,” he said. “ Then, with 
your permission, I will.” 

He smoked quietly for a few seconds, and it was 
a good cigar, I can tell you. The fragrance filled 
the whole house. Then I broke the ice : — - 

“ Now, my curate has had several conferences 
with you about religion, and he told me he was 
going to try the Kampaner Thai .” 

“ Oh, yes ! so he did, indeed. He has been very 
kind.” 

I should say here that my theological friend and 
neighbor had written me : “I have hunted up all 
my cyclopaedias, and can find no trace whatever of 
that thing about which you were inquiring. From 


The Kampaner Thai 243 

the word Kampaner , I suspect it has something to 
do with bells. Perhaps your curate wants a chime 
for your cathedral at Kilronan. When you get 
them, select C sharp, or B flat, and put it around 
his neck, that we may know where to find him. 
Yours truly — ” 

“ Now,” I said to Mr. Ormsby, “ I do not know 
whether that Kampaner Thai is bird, beast, fish, or 
insect; whether it is a powerful drug or a new 
system of hypnotism.” 

“ Oh, 't is none of these dreadful things,” he said, 
laughing; “ ’t is only a little book. Here it is ! I 
always carry it about with me. It is really very 
beautiful.” 

I handled the little duodecimo with suspicion; 
then gave it back. 

“ It has done you a lot of good, I suppose?” 
I said, I am afraid, with a certain amount of 
contempt. 

“ I can’t say it has,” he replied sadly ; then 
lapsed into moody reflection. 

Now, gloom is the one thing I cannot tolerate ; 
so to rouse him from his reverie, and possibly 
from a slight, venial prompting of curiosity, I asked 
him to read some passages for me. 

“ My old sight cannot bear much of a strain,” 
I said, “ and the print is mighty small. Now, like 
a good fellow, pick out some good things, and 
read them slowly, for perhaps I may require to 
punctuate them.” 


244 -^y New Curate 

So he read in a calm even monotone, without 
inflection, but with many pauses, whilst I watched 
every syllable and measured it. 

“ I have a strong objection to a voyage pittoresque 
through the planets; we bear in our own breasts a 
heaven full of constellations. There is in our hearts an 
inward, spiritual world, that breaks like a sun upon the 
clouds of the outward world. I mean that inward uni- 
verse of goodness, beauty, and truth, — three worlds that 
are neither part, nor shoot, nor copy of the outward. 
We are less astonished at the incomprehensible existence 
of these transcendental heavens because they are always 
there, and we foolishly imagine that we create, when 
we merely perceive them. After what model , with what 
plastic power , and from what \ could we create these 
same spiritual worlds? The atheist should ask himself 
how he received the giant idea of God, that he has 
neither opposed nor embodied. An idea that has not 
grown up by comparing different degrees of greatness, as 
it is the opposite of every measure and degree. In fact, 
the atheist speaks as others of prototype and original .” 

“ Stop there,” I cried ; “ why that is the onto- 
logical argument of St. Anselm, adopted afterwards 
by a soldier philosopher like yourself, called Des- 
cartes. There ’s nothing new under the sun. It 
is wonderful how modern artists can refurbish 
our old Masters and make wonderful pictures from 
them ! ” 

“ Quite so,” he replied, “ in lieu of yourselves. 
There, now, I am always too precipitate ; pardon 
me, sir, if I am too bold ; but you Catholics have 


The Kampaner Thai 245 

a wonderful talent for burying your treasures in 
napkins. Have you any treatise on the immor- 
tality of the soul in English, and in such a style as 
this? ” 

“ I am afraid,” I replied, as I looked askance at 
the volume, “ that just now I cannot mention one. 
But go on, if it does not tire you. Time is the 
cheapest thing we have in Ireland.” 

He continued : — 

“ 1 The inward world, that is indeed more splendid and 
admirable than the outward, needs another heaven than 
the one above us, and a higher world than that the sun 
warms ; therefore, we say justly, not a second earthy or 
globe, but a second world beyond this universe.’ 

“ Gione interrupted me : ‘ And every virtuous and wise 
man is a proof of another world.’ 

“ ‘ And,’ continued Nadine quickly, 1 every one who 
undeservedly suffers.’ 

“ 1 Yes,* I answered ; 1 that is what draws our thread 
of life through a long eternity. The threefold echo of 
virtue, truth, and beauty, created by the music of the 
spheres, calls us from this hollow earth to the neighbor- 
hood of the music. Why and wherefore were these 
desires given us? Merely that, like a swallowed dia- 
mond, they should slowly cut through our earthly cover- 
ing. Wherefore were we placed upon this ball of earth, 
creatures with light wings, if instead of soaring with our 
wings of ether, we are to fall back into the earth-clods 
of our birth? .... Is an angel to be imprisoned in 
the body to be its dumb servant, its stove-warmer and 
butler, its cuisinier and porter at the door of the 
.stomach? Shall the ethereal flame merely serve to fill 


246 My New Curate 

the circular stove with life’s warmth, obediently burn 
and warm, then become cold and extinguished?’” 

“ Very good, indeed,” I interrrupted. “ He 
knows how to put things in a virile way/ 

“ ‘ The discrepancy between our wishes and our rela- 
tions, between the soul and the earth , remains a riddle 
if we continue ; and if we cease to live, a blasphemy. 
Strangers, born upon mountains, we consume in lowly 
places, with unhealthy heimweh (home-sickness). We 
belong to higher regions, and an eternal longing grows 
in our hearts at music, which is the Ruhr eigen of our 
native Alps. . . / 

“‘From hence what follows?’ asked the chaplain (a 
Kantian) . 

“ ‘ Not that we are unhappy, but that we are immortal ; 
and this world within us demands and manifests a sec- 
ond without us. ... I cannot tell how painful, how 
monstrous and horrible the thought of an annihilat- 
ing death, of an eternal grave, now appeared to me. 
Men often bear their errors, as their truths, about in 
words, and not in feeling ; but let the believer in 
annihilation place before him, instead of a life of sixty 
years, one of sixty minutes ; then let him look on the 
face of a beloved being, or upon a noble or wise man, as 
upon an aimless hour-long appearance ; as a thin shadow 
that melts into light and leaves no trace ; can he bear 
the thought? No ! the supposition of imperishableness 
is always with him ; else there would hang always before 
his soul, as before Mahomet’s in the fairest sky, a dark 
cloud ; and, as Cain upon the earth, an eternal fear 
would pursue him. Yes, if all the woods upon this earth 
were groves of pleasure \ if all the valleys were Kampaner 


The Kampaner Thai 247 

valleys ; if all the islands were blessed, and all the fields 
Elysian ; if all eyes were cheerful and all the hearts joy- 
ful, — yes, then — no ! even then, had God, through 
this very blessedness, made to our spirits the promise , 
the oath of eternal duration ! But, now, O God ! when 
so many houses are houses of mourning, so many fields 
battlefields, so many cheeks pale, when we pass before 
so many eyes red with weeping or closed in death : Oh ! 
can the grave, that haven of salvation, be the last swallow- 
ing, unyielding whirlpool? No, the trampled worm 
dares raise itself towards its Creator, and say, “Thou 
durst not create me only to suffer ! ” * ” 

I was listening with closed eyes to the reading, 
the quiet rhythm of the sentences, and the calm, 
deep music of his voice, sounding ineffably sooth- 
ing, when a quaver, then a break in his voice, just 
as he repeated the last words, made me look toward 
him. The calm, strong man was weeping silently; 
and just then he broke into a paroxysm of sobs 
that shook his strong frame as by a palsy. Dear 
Lord ! what hidden grief there is in the world ! 
Who would ever dream that the calm exterior of 
this reasoning, cultivated atheist concealed such 
hidden fires? It was no time to talk; I let the 
poor fellow alone. After a few moments he dried 
his eyes, and said : — 

“I am quite ashamed of this snivelling, Father. 
I should n’t have attempted to read this. It always 
upsets me.” 

“Never mind, my poor boy,” I said. “It is 
good for men sometimes to weep.” I thought 


248 My New Curate 

in my own mind, My little child will be in safe 
hands. 

“ Now, put it aside,” I said gently, '* and let us 
talk.” 

“ One sentence more, Father, just to get over 
this weakness.” 

“ 1 Ah, Carlson (Carlson stands for myself), upon what 
a beautiful world do you throw your immeasurable grave- 
stone, that no time can lift. Your difficulties, which are 
founded on the necessary uncertainties of men, if solved, 
would only have the effect to destroy our faith ; which 
is the solution of a thousand other difficulties ; without 
which our existence is without aim, our pains without 
solution, and the Godlike Trinity within our breasts three 
avenging angels. From the formless earthworm up to 
the beaming human countenance ; from the chaos of the 
first day up to the present age of the world ; from the 
first faint motion of the heart to its full, bold throbbing 
in the breast of manhood, the invisible hand of God 
leads, protects, and nourishes the inward being; the 
nursling of the outward educates and polishes and 
makes it beautiful — and wherefore ? That when it 
stands as a demigod in the midst of the ruins of the 
temple of the body, the blow of death may prostrate it 
forever, that nothing shall remain from the corpse-veiled, 
the mourning and mantled immeasurable universe, but 
the eternally sowing, never harvesting, solitary spirit of 
the world ! One eternity looking despairingly at the 
other; and in the whole spiritual universe no end, no 
aim ! And all these contradictions and riddles, whereby 
not merely the harmony, but the very strings of creation 
are tangled, must we take, merely on account of the 


The Kampaner Thai 249 

difficulties, that, indeed, our annihilation cannot solve? 
Beloved Carlson ! into this harmony of the spheres, that 
is not over , but ever around us, will you bring your 
shrieking discord ? See how gently and touchingly the 
day departs, and how holily the night comes ! Oh, can 
you not believe that even thus our spirits shall arise 
from the dust, as you once saw the full moon arise over 
the crater of Vesuvius?’ 

“ Gione took his hand and said : — 

“ ‘ Amongst us all, will you alone be tormented with this 
despairing faith ? ’ 

“ Two hot drops fell from his blinded eyes ; he looked 
at the mountains, and said : — 

“ ‘ I can bear no annihilation but my own. My heart 
is of your opinion ; my head will slowly follow.’ ” 

“ And that, sir,” said Ormsby, closing the book 
and putting it into his side pocket, “ is just where 
I am. My heart is with you ; if only my head 
would follow. Put Bittra for Gione, and you will 
understand my emotion.” 

“ Even that won’t do,” I said ; “ the head might 
follow, and you might be as far from us as ever.” 

“ I don’t understand,” he said in a bewildered 
way. “ Surely all that ’s wanting now is a convic- 
tion of the truth of your teaching? ” 

“ There ’s your grave mistake,” I replied ; “ con- 
viction is not faith. There* are thousands of your 
countrymen filled with conviction of the truths of 
Catholicity ; but they are as far outside the Church 
as a Confucian or a Buddhist. Faith is not a 
matter to be acquired by reading or knowledge. 


250 My New Curate 

It is a gift, like the natural talent of a great painter 
or musician — a sixth sense, and the pure gratuity 
of the All-Wise and the All-Good.” 

This appeared to him to be a revelation which 
he could not comprehend ; it seemed to be such 
an inevitable logical sequence — conviction and 
profession. 

"I am attracted by everything,” he said, “ in 
your Church. The whole thing appears to be such 
a well-connected scheme, so unlike the religion in 
which I was born and educated, where you had to 
be forever searching after a missing link. And then 
your Church seems to be founded on love — love 
of a supernal kind, of course, and almost unin- 
telligible ; but it is the golden chain in the string 
of pearls. You will have noticed how rapidly 
sometimes the mind makes comparisons. Well, 
often, at our station over there, I have thought, as 
I searched the sea, that we Protestants look at God 
through the large end of a telescope and throw 
Him afar off, and make Him very small and insig- 
nificant; whilst you look at Him through the 
narrower end, and magnify Him and bring Him 
near. Our God — that is, the God in whom I was 
taught to believe — is the God of Sinai, and our 
Christ is the historic Christ ; but that won’t do for 
a humanity that is ever querulous for God, and 
you have found the secret.” 

I was quite astonished at the solemn, thoughtful 
manner in which this young fellow spoke, and his 


The Kampaner Thai 251 

words were so full of feeling and self-sympathy 
for his great privation. He was silent for a long 
time, smoking freely, whilst I was pondering many 
things, mostly in humility for our slow apprecia- 
tion of the great gift of divine faith. At last, he 
said : — 

“ I do not quite follow you, sir, in your remark 
about a sixth sense ; for this is not a question of 
sense, but of the soul.” 

We were now getting into deep water, and when 
an old gentleman has n’t opened a book of philoso- 
phy for nearly thirty years, he may be well ex- 
cused for a certain timidity in approaching these 
deep questions. But, “ keep to the metaphorical ” 
has always been a great rule of mine, which never 
failed me. 

“ Let me explain,” I said. “ Have you ever 
been to an ophthalmic hospital or a blind 
asylum ? ” 

“Yes,” he replied, “principally abroad.” 

“ Well,” I continued, “ you might have noticed 
various forms of the dread disease of blind- 
ness. Some are cases of cataract; in some the 
entire ball is removed; some have partial sight 
behind the ugly film. But the most pathetic case 
to my mind is that of the young boy or girl who 
comes toward you, looking steadily at you with 
large, luminous eyes, the iris perfectly clear, the 
pupil normally distended, and even the white of 
the eye tinged with that delicate blue that denotes 


252 My New Curate 

perfect health in the organ; but in one moment 
the truth flashes upon you — that poor patient is 
stone-blind. Now, where ’s the disease? ” 

“ The optic nerve is destroyed,” he answered 
promptly. 

“ Precisely. And now, if you were to pour in 
through the dark canal of the pupil the strongest 
sunlight, or even the flash of your electric search- 
light, would it make any difference, do you think? ” 

“ None,” he said, “ so far as sight was concerned ; 
but it might possibly paralyze the brain.” 

“ Precisely. And if you, my dear young friend, 
were pouring, till the crack of doom, every kind 
of human light — philosophical, dogmatic, contro- 
versial — upon the retina of the soul without the 
optic nerve of faith, you will be blind, and go 
blind to your grave.” 

Somehow this appeared to be a relief, though it 
looked like discouragement. 

“ It is something to know,” he said, “ that the 
fault is not altogether my own. But,” after a 
pause, “ this demands a miracle.” 

“ Quite so. A pure light from God. And that 
is the reason that my excellent curate is storming 
the citadels of heaven for you by that terrible ar- 
tillery — the prayers of little children. And if 
you want to capture this grace of God by one 
tremendous coup, search out the most stricken and 
afflicted of my flock (Bittra has a pretty good cata- 
logue of them), and get him or her to pray for 


The Kampaner Thai 253 

you, and very soon the sense of faith will awaken 
within you, and you will wonder that you were 
ever blind.” 

“Ten thousand thanks,” he said, rising; “ I had 
no anticipations of so pleasant and instructive an 
evening.” 

“You were told to expect to meet a funny old 
fellow,” I said, “ with as many quips, and cranks, 
and jests, as old Jack Falstaff? ” 

“ Well,” he said, pulling his mustache nervously, 
“ I should not like to put it so brusquely.” 

“ Of course not. But there lies a big mistake, 
my dear boy. Democritus was as much a phi- 
losopher as Heraclitus, and he lived fifty years 
longer. There is a good deal of philosophy be- 
hind a laugh, and we put our gargoyles on the 
outside of our churches.” 

“ Indeed, I must say, from a long experience,” 
he replied, “ and a grateful experience, that your 
men are the most cheerful class I have met, — if I 
except our own sailors, — although the comparison 
sounds grotesque. And,” he said hesitatingly, 
“ that just reminds me ; if I may take the freedom 
of showing my gratitude in a small way, permit me 
to say to you as pastor, what I have already hinted 
to himself, that your most excellent curate will in- 
volve himself in a great deal of trouble and pos- 
sible expense if he perseveres in that matter of the 
fishing-boat. Indeed, I have been working the 
matter for him, because his heart is set on it; but 


254 My New Curate 

I have misgivings. I’m not sure that I am quite 
right in mentioning the matter to you, sir ; but I am 
really anxious, and I speak from long experience.” 

He lighted another cigar at the door, and I re- 
turned to think somewhat anxiously whether I had 
done credit to Catholic philosophy. But my 
thoughts would revert to these last words of 
Ormsby’s. What if Father Letheby should get 
into a bad mess, and everything so promising? 
How little these young men reflect what a trouble 
they are to their old pastors i 


CHAPTER XIX 


LITERARY ATTEMPTS 

I BROKE Captain Ormsby’s advice to Father 
Letheby as gently as I could ; and I flatter my- 
self I have the talent of putting things in as 
roundabout a way as any professional diplomat. 
He took it badly. He is clearly overworking him- 
self, for he now becomes irritable on the slightest 
provocation. 

“ Blocked everywhere ! ” he said, walking up 
and down his little room. “ P'ather Dan, you are 
right ; and I am a fool. There is no use attempt- 
ing to do any good in Ireland.” 

Now, this was not exactly the conclusion I 
wanted him to come to ; but we have a national 
failing of generalizing from rather minute par- 
ticulars. 

“ I ’m not so sure of that,” I said. “ I think 
you have a fair share of work to do here, and that 
you have done it and are doing it remarkably 
well.” 

Absurd ! There was not half enough to do to 
satisfy his Napoleonic ambition. Nothing but the 
Vicariate of the whole of the Dark Continent for 
this young man. 


256 My New Curate 

“ Look here, Father Dan. My parochial work 
is over every day at four o’clock; and you have 
taught me to finish the Office, even by anticipa- 
tion, before dinner. Now, what on earth is a 
young fellow to do between four o’clock of a 
winter’s evening and ten o’clock, when he retires? 
Once in a month I dine at Campion’s; but the 
rest of the time, except when I run up to you — ” 

“ And you don’t come half enough, you, sir,” I 
said. “ I never saw anything like the — pride of 
young fellows nowadays.” 

“That’s all right, Father Dan,” he replied, 
somewhat more calmly; “but even with all your 
kindness, what in the world am I to do w r ith my 
leisure time?” 

“ Read, and read, and read,” I said. “ Have 
you not the whole ocean of human knowledge to 
dip into? ” 

“ Ah ! cui bono? ” he replied. 

“ Cui bono? from you ! I never thought I ’d 
hear that fatal word again. Cui bono ? from you ! 
Cui bono ? from you ! ” 

I was never so startled in my life. It was a 
dread revelation of dissatisfaction and ennui, that 
might lead no one knew whither. 

“ Cui bono?” I said. “Is there any pleasure 
on this earth comparable to the pleasure of ac- 
quiring knowledge? Is there any satisfaction 
equal to the continuous pursuit of ideas — always 
coming up to them, and passing them in the in- 


Literary Attempts 257 

satiable thirst and pursuit? Now, I see clearly 
that my tastes are not your tastes, and I was 
wrong in forcing the studies of the classics upon 
" you. But take up philosophy, arrange a horarium 
for the evenings — so much time for reading, so 
much for thinking, so much for writing — ” 

“Ah! there you’ve struck it,” he broke in. 
“ If I could only write, I should always have an 
incentive, and a strong incentive for reading and 
studying what I read.” 

“And why don’t you write?” I repeated. 
“ Paper is cheap ; pens and ink don’t cost 
much — ” 

“ Write for what, and for whom?” he cried. 

“Write for the magazines,” I said. “Write 
brisk, crisp, lively articles for our reviews and 
periodicals ; get paid for them ; and then the 
ineffable pleasure of seeing your own work in 
print ! ” 

“ And what if they were rejected contume- 
liously ? ” 

“Impossible,” I replied; “there is room and 
to spare for good writers. Why, we are always 
crying out about the barrenness of our literature ! ” 

He had gone over to a portfolio, and had taken 
out a few rolls of manuscript, to each of which a 
letter was tagged. He handed them to me with- 
out a word. It needed only a glance to see that 
if the editor's had used up all the polite words of 
the language, nevertheless, “ Rejected ! ” was writ- 
17 


258 My New Curate 

ten in capital letters on every page. I knew well 
what it meant to a proud, sensitive spirit; and 
although it was only the usual probation for liter- 
ary novices, it might have a different effect from 
successful training in the case of a thoughtful if 
irritable mind. I pretended to read carefully the 
two essays, the three short stories, and the half- 
dozen poems that had come back to the author’s 
hands without proofs, whilst I was rapidly turning 
over in my mind what I should say or do ; for the 
recollection of my own experience at his age led 
me to believe that this was a critical moment for 
him. Happy the stupid souls that can gaze, 
without the constant fretting of thought, into the 
fire for hours together ! Happy we, who, going 
down the decline of life, have the brake put on by 
a merciful Providence, and the wheels move slowly, 
and day blends with night, and night dawns to 
day, almost imperceptibly ! But thrice unhappy 
they in whose souls the mills of thought whirl 
round and round without ceasing the wheelstones 
that grind together, if the grist is not between ! 
How often to dreaming poet and idealist has the 
eternal fretting of the wheels become intolerable, 
and then — 

“ I should n’t mind,” he interjected on my rev- 
erie, “ but these papers issue such lamentable 
stuff! Such vapid essays, such aimless stories, 
such bread-and-butter school-girl poetry, — * sing * 
and ‘ spring,’ ‘ bird ’ and ‘ heard,’ — not an elevat- 


Literary Attempts 259 

ing idea or thought through the whole thing from 
beginning to end ; and then look at these : ‘ We 
consider your story too long ; * 4 We regret that 

the style of your article is unsuited to our pages ; ’ 
‘We see some promise in your poem, but it is not 
quite up to the level of our requirements ; ’ ‘ Try 
blank verse. ... We shall be glad to hear from 
you again.’ Did you ever hear such mockery, 
and these very men printing such intolerable 
rubbish ! ” 

Of course, he never thought of the poor editor, 
leaning over his chair in a brown study, biting the 
pen-handle, and wondering how he can please 
“ A Constant Subscriber,” who objects to the 
rather light nature of the articles he is now giving 
to the public ; or, “ Sacerdos,” who does not like 
poetry; or, “ Senex,” who asks sarcastically: Is he 
putting himself in rivalry with the “ Edinburgh” or 
“ Quarterly,” or who the mischief cares one brass 
pin about “ Aristotle’s Constitution of Athens ; ” 
and would n’t he give them something light and 
agreeable to help to digest their dinners? Oh no ! 
he only thought then and there that there should 
be an auto da fe , — a summary crematory process 
of all the editors under the sun. 

“ Look here, young man,” said I, at last, “ there 
is only one thing for you to do. You must write 
a book.” 

“ Look here, Father Dan,” said he, “ I ’m not in 
much humor for joking. Any priest that would 


260 My New Curate 

attempt to write a book nowadays should have 
the spirit of the martyrs, who stepped onto the 
sands in the Coliseum and saw the brutal Romans 
in the auditorium and wild beasts in the cages 
beneath ! ” 

“ Well, my dear boy,” I replied, “ you will 
write the book; but for goodness’ sake write it in 
your present humor, before the fires die down.” 

He laughed. 

“ Write a book? What in the world should I 
write about? The world is deluged and drowned 
by books. And if I wrote it, who could or would 
publish it? Imagine me hawking around a wretched 
manuscript from publisher to publisher, until it 
was tattered, yellow, and undecipherable. Why, 
the big London fellows accept only ten MSS. out 
of five hundred on the average, and you know I 
cannot publish at my own risk.” 

“Who the mischief spoke about publishing?” 
I replied, trying to keep up the flame ; “ I only 
asked you to write. Write, write, write, and leave 
the publishing to God.” 

“And what am I to write about? Every sub- 
ject under the sun is threshed out and threadbare, 
from the origin of ideas down to the microbe of 
typhoid fever. Not at all; the world is grown 
too wise for books ; we must devise something 
else.” 

“ It is not many days ago,” I replied, “ since I 
heard you lament the awful and culpable defects 


Literary Attempts 261 

in our popular Catholic literature. Had n’t you 
to fall back upon that barbarous book to enlighten 
Ormsby on the existence of his immortal soul?” 

“Barbarous? I wish to heaven that I could 
write anything half as good. But, as you see, 
there are whole fields of literature yet untrodden by 
us, but where heretics and others are reaping rich 
harvests. Yet, who would dare make the attempt? 
Don’t you know that the ablest professors in your 
own time in Maynooth never ventured into print? 
They dreaded the chance shots from behind the 
hedge from the barrels of those masked banditti, 
called * critics.’ ” 

“ Dear me, how you do run on ! One would 
think you had the MS. cut and dry in your pocket, 
you talk so glibly about publishers and critics. 
Can’t you write the book first and then take cir- 
cumstances as they occur?” 

“Well, go on, suggest a subject, sir.” 

“ Now, this is rather sudden, young man. Give 
me one day, and I ’ll give you a list of subjects 
that would bewilder you ! Only promise me you ’ll 
take one up.” 

“ All right ! ” said he ; “ I promise. Hallo ! 
where are you taking those papers?” 

“ I ’m taking them home for the present. They 
are confiscated to the Crown.” 

He looked at them wistfully, as if they were 
going to the holocaust, as we might imagine the 
great mother of the Maccabees watched half with 


262 My New Curate 

pain, half with pride, wholly with resignation, her 
sons mount the funeral pyre. 

“ Never fear,” I replied, “ they won’t go up the 
chimney. At least, I ’ll answer for the prose. I ’m 



“ It broke in my fingers and revealed the little dreams and 
ambitions of nearly forty years ago.” 


not so sure about the poetry. Now, good day ! 
I ’ll keep you to your promise.” 

And I did, but with what cost to myself. I had 
to search in the cemeteries of the past for the 
skeletons of designs, once gladly adopted, then 
as gladly laid to rest. At last, I found, hidden 



Literary Attempts 263 

away amongst episcopal documents, dispensations, 
etc., a yellow, frayed paper, tied up in string that 
once was red, but now was white and fragile. It 
broke in my fingers and revealed the little dreams 
and ambitions of nearly forty years ago. Need 
I say they never ripened, or came within even 
measurable distance of perfection. They were 
three large quarto sheets, and they were darkened 
thus : — 


A. M. D. G. 

Subjects for Articles and Papers to be written , wholly or 
partially , during the Coming Years. 

I. Mental Philosophy. 

I. The Influence of Plato on the Early Christian 

Church. 

II. The Influence of Aristotle on the Mediaeval 

Church. 

III. The Neo-Platonists. 

IV. The Argument in St. Augustine on the Immor- 

tality of the Soul. (Is it Tenable?) 

V. The Atomic Theory of Democritus, and the 
Modern Discoveries in Astronomy. 

VI. The Influence of the Inductive Philosophy on 
Modern Disbelief. 

VII. Was Spinoza an Atheist? 

VIII. Is Descartes the Father of Modern Rationalism? 

IX. St. Anselm’s Proof of the Existence of God. 

X. The Cosmological Argument of St. John Damas- 
cene. 

XI. The Argument from Intuition. 


264 My New Curate 

XII. Aspects of Modem Pantheism. 

XIII. Christian Idealism. 

XIV. Malebranche and F^nelon. 

XV. Boethius. 

XVI. Catholic Philosophers of the Nineteenth Cen- 
tury. 

XVII. The Connection between Soul and Body (Ter- 
tullian). 

XVIII. The Chaldaean Doctrine of the Soul (eWa/z«/os 

Trvparvp). 

XIX. The Idea of Personality. 

XX. The Identification of Life and Motion. 

XXI. Maine de Biran. 

XXII. The Popularization of Catholic Philosophy. 

II. Ecclesiastical History. 

I. The Alexandrian School. 

II. The Writings of Clement. 

III. Origen, and his Works. 

IV. Ephrem the Syrian, and his Works. 

V. The Apologists. 

VI. The Three Cappadocians. 

VII. Julian and his Contemporaries. 

VIII. The Council of Nicsea. 

IX. St. Augustine and the Donatists. 

X. The Saints of the Catacombs. 

XI. The Discipline of the Secret. 

XII. The Libyan and Nitrean Anchorites 

XIII. The Stylites. 

XIV. Communion in the Early Church. 

XV. Medisevalism. 

XVI. The Case of Honorius. 

XVII. Hildebrand. 


Literary Attempts 265 

XVIII. Alexander VI. and Savonarola. 

XIX. Origin and Spread of Monasticism. 

XX. The Influence of the Irish Monks on the Conti- 
nent of Europe. 

XXI. Schools of Philosophy. 

XXII. Port- Royal, Pascal, Nicole, Arnauld. 

XXIII. The Rise and Progress of Jansenism. 

XXIV. Gallicanism and National Churches. 

Rather a large order, I thought, as I looked 
with pitying eyes on the far vision of a curly- 
headed young priest of forty years ago, and thought 
of the day-dreams of youth; and what a very 
slender precipitate of work fell from the vast 
effervescence of the idealism of inexperience. 
There remained another page of projected in- 
spiration on the scope and meaning of Holy 
Scripture; but this I put aside. I found my 
knowledge, little as it was, was derived from such 
obsolete and antique commentators as a Lapide, 
Maldonatus, Estius, and the Triplex ; and I was 
ashamed to produce such fossilized literature to 
the advanced thinkers of the present day. I did 
not like to face this ordeal : — 

“ Then you have n’t heard of the new schools 
of interpretation? You know that the great 
thinkers of Germany, Bahrdt, and Sender, and 
Eichhorn, have upset all our preconceived ideas 
about the Bible. The Wolfian ideas have been 
expanded and developed ; and advanced Catholic 
apologists have set themselves to the task of 


266 My New Curate 

reconciling our ancient traditions with the dis- 
coveries of modern science. The tremendous 
advances made by philological scientists and 
experts during these last years — ” 

I don’t say, indeed, that my curate would in- 
dulge in this affectation, for he is rather disposed 
to take the old, unlearned modes of saving souls 
and going with them to Heaven, than the new, 
brilliant mimetism of a world that knows not 
God. But still I know he would think it waste 
of time to pursue such studies, until the modern 
Luciferi tell us exactly what they have placed 
beyond the borderland of conjecture, and into 
the certain and unshaken fields of mathematical 
demonstration. So I left my Scriptural syllabus 
at home. 

He looked slightly appalled at the large sched- 
ule of science I showed him. I reassured him by 
telling him I insisted positively on his taking only 
one subject in each department. 

“ The grand mistake,” I declared, “ made by us, 
Catholics, is in taking too wide, too bird’s-eye a 
view of human history and philosophy, instead 
of mapping them into sections, as the astronomical 
photographers are mapping the skies from the 
Papal Observatory in Rome to the Lick Observa- 
tory in California. What we want most is sec- 
tional treatises on single subjects. Now, what 
you are to give us is not a vast diorama from 
Thales to Rosmini, and from the persecutions of 


Literary Attempts 267 

Julian to the Kulturkampf of Bismarck, but a 
neat etching of some particular persons and events, 
and a clear photograph of some practical point 
of Catholic philosophy. If you throw in a few 
side-lights from the errors of non-Catholic think- 
ers, so much the better. Now, look it over 
carefully; as the strolling player declares — 
‘You pays your money, and you takes your 
choice.’ ” 

He thought that question of inductive philosophy 
very nice. He had read something about it in 
Macaulay. He liked that Platonic question very 
much. It bordered upon poetry and mysticism. 
Then St. Augustine ! That would be charming. 
He had always such a love for St. Augustine ! 
But Fenelon? The “dove of Cambrai ” versus 
the “ eagle of Meaux ! ” What a delightful 
idea ! No good housekeeper, at a cheap sale, 
was ever so puzzled. Finally, we decided that, 
in philosophy, he was to take up the ques- 
tion of “ Modern Aspects of Pantheism ; ” and 
in Ecclesiastical History he selected “ The 
Cappadocians.” 

“But what about books?” he asked in dis- 
may. “ I have n’t a single book on these blessed 
subjects.” 

“ Buy them,” I said. “ Every good workman 
buys his tools and materials.” 

“ I have a strong suspicion, Father Dan,” he 
said, “ that this is all a practical joke. Why, that 


268 My New Curate 

means a whole library. And if I had money, 
which I have not, I do not know the name of a 
single blessed Catholic author on these subjects.” 

“ Why, my dear fellow, there are hundreds. 
Let me see ! On the Fathers, Basil and the two 
Gregories. Let me see! Haven’t you — my 
memory is failing — haven’t you Cardinal New- 
man’s essays on these Fathers ?” 

“Well? You don’t want me to give a ver- 
batim version of Cardinal Newman, surely, do 
you?” 

“ Let me see ! Why, we have hundreds of 
English Catholic writers on these subjects. What 
in the world is becoming of my memory? Why, 
we have whole libraries in the English language 
on these subjects ! Is n’t there Alzog and — and 
— Darras? — ” 

“ I have Darras,” he cried triumphantly. 

“ Well, look it up, and see all you can get 
about St. Basil.” 

“ But their writings ! Would n’t it be nice to 
give Greek extracts from their sermons and 
homilies? ” 

“ ’T would indeed. Well, I ’ll look up all the 
old catalogues I have kept, and let you know 
about books of reference. Meanwhile, commence 
somewhere by way of preface. Now, what are 
you going to do about that fishing-boat? Ormsby 
says it is certainly a troublesome and may be a 
perilous enterprise ! ” 


Literary Attempts 269 

“ It ’s gone too far now to draw back,” said 
Father Letheby. “ The Board has yielded at last, 
thanks to Ormsby himself.” 

“ They ’ll advance all the money? ” 

“ No ; two thirds ; four hundred pounds.” 

“ That ’s very kind of them ; and no interest, 
no security. I did not think Boards could be so 
generous.” 

“ No, indeed. They have full security to be 
paid back, principal and five per cent interest, in 
less than five years.” 

“By Jove! You are a clever fellow. And 
where have you got all this Midas wealth?” 

He asked me to be good enough to move with 
him to the window. True enough, even under the 
cold light, the broad sea stretched sparkling be- 
fore us, with all its magic and glamour, but un- 
ruffled and unploughed by even one Nautilus-sail 
of busy man. 

“ There,” he cried, “ there lie the gold mines of 
Ireland, unworked and neglected. In these depths 
is wealth enough to make Kilronan a busy em- 
porium of merchandise for half the world ! ” 

“ I see. And the other two hundred? Where 
do they come from? ” 

“ Subscribed by twenty merchants, who have 
taken shares in the boat.” 

“ And you never asked your old pastor to invest 
in this patriotic bank. Shame ! Shame ! And 


270 My New Curate 

I wanted a little return as well as the rest of the 
world.” 

He laughed. 

14 The mackerel fishery alone,” he continued, in 
a calculating way, 44 is worth a hundred pounds 
each for each boat in the Manx and French fish- 
ing-fleets that anchor off our shores every year, 
and take our wealth back to their thriving villages. 
I calculate another cool hundred on cod, haak, 
etc. I think we shall pay back the Board’s loan 
in three years, besides paying handsome dividends 
to our shareholders. The boat is in the hands 
of a Belfast firm. She will be ready by the first 
of May. On that day she will be christened the 
4 Star of the Sea,’ and will make her first run to 
the fishing-fleet.” 

44 And what about the shirt-factory? ” 

44 That ’s all right, too,” he said, though his 
face grew a little clouded. 44 1 shall have twenty 
sewing-machines in full swing by the middle of 
April. The manager was here and dined with 
me last Thursday ; he ’s a fine fellow. He assures 
me that, after the initial expenses are over, the 
girls can earn from eight to ten shillings a week 
easily.” 

44 By Jove ! That ’s good. That will be a great 
help to the poor people.” 

44 Yes; he sends the shirts here, ready and cut 
for sewing, by the new system of scientific shirt- 


Literary Attempts 271 

making. Then all they have to do is to tack them 
together with the machines.” 

“God bless you!” I said fervently. “You’re 
a wonderful fellow.” 

I was sorry that I gave him Ormsby’s message 
of warning. 


CHAPTER XX 


MADONNA MIA 

The winter had nearly rolled by, and the sky 
was opening out its eyelids wider and wider, and 
letting in light to man and all his wondrous train 
of servitors. It was a cold, steely light indeed, 
particularly on those March evenings; and the 
sunsetting was a dreary, lonesome thing, as the 
copper-colored rays rested on hamlet or moun- 
tain, or tinged the cold face of the sea. But it 
was light, and light is something man craves for, 
be it never so pale. Will not one of heaven’s 
delights be to see the “ inaccessible light ” in 
which God — our God — is shrouded, and to be- 
hold one another’s faces in the light that streams 
from the Lamb ? And so, very tempting as my 
fire is — and I am as much a fire-worshipper as an 
Irish Druid or a Peruvian Inca — I always like to 
go out as the days are lengthening and the sun 
is stretching out his compasses to measure in 
wider arcs the sky. 

This evening, too, I had a little business with 
Father Letheby. As I entered his parlor, I 
carried a tiny slip of printed paper in my hand. 

“ You ’d hardly guess what it is ? ” I said, hold- 
ing it from the light. 


Madonna Mia 273 

“A check for a hundred pounds, or my re- 
moval ! ” he exclaimed. 

“ Neither. Read it ! ” 

I am quite sure it was infinitely more gratifying 
than the check, to say nothing of the removal; 
and I am quite sure the kindly editor, who had 
sent me that proof of Father Letheby’s first 
poem, would have been amply repaid for his 
charity if he had seen the shades and flushes of 
delight and half-alarm that swept like clouds 
across the face of the young priest. And it was 
not all charity, either. The good editor spoke 
truly when he declared that the poem was quite 
original and out of the beaten track, and would 
probably attract some attention. I think, next 
to the day of his ordination, this was the supreme 
day in Father Letheby’s life hitherto. 

“ It was very kind,” he said, “very kind indeed. 
And how am I to thank you, Father Dan? ” 

“ By keeping steadily at the work I pointed out 
for you,” I replied. “Now, let me see what you 
have done.” 

“ Do you mean about the books ? ” he asked. 

“Yes,” I said determinedly, “and about the 
horarium I marked out and arranged for you. 
Have you conscientiously studied during the two 
hours each evening, and written from 1 1 a. m. to 
noon every day, as I appointed ? ” 

“To be candid,” he said at once, “I have not. 
First came the lack of books. Except Butler’s 
18 


274 My New Curate 

* Lives of the Saints, * I cannot come across a 
single indication of what Basil and the Gregories 
did or wrote; and my edition of Butler is expur- 
gated of all the valuable literary notes which, I 
understand, were in the first editions. Then the 
moment I take the pen into my hand, in comes 
Mrs. Luby to know wouldn’t I write to the 
colonel of the Connaught Rangers to get her 
little boy discharged and sent home. He enlisted 
in a fit of drink. Then comes Mrs. Moriarty 
with the modest request to write to the pastor 
of Santa Barbara about her little girl who emi- 
grated to America sixteen years ago. Then 
comes — ” 

“ Never mind,” I said, “I have been there. 
But I won’t accept these excuses at all. You 
must work, whether you like or no. Now, I am 
going to take away all excuses. I have been 
searching a lot of old catalogues, and I have 
discovered that these are the books for you. 
On the subject of ‘ Modern Pantheism ’ we will 
get: — 

“ (i) Lewes’ * History of Philosophy,’ 4 vols. 

“ (2) Brucker’s * Historia Critica Philosophic, ’ 
6 vols. 

“(3) Tenneman’s ‘History of Philosophy’ 
(Cousin). 

“(4) fimile Saisset’s ‘Modern Pantheism,' 2 
vols. 

“(5) ‘ History of Pantheism ’ (Plumtre). 


Madonna Mia 275 

“ (6) * An Essay on Pantheism,’ by J. Hunt, D. D. 

“( 7 ) ‘ Spinoza,’ by Principal Caird, LL. D. 

“ (8) ‘ Spinoza,’ by D. J. Martineau. 

w (9) * Spinoza, his Ethics and Correspondence,’ 
by R. Willis, M.D. 

“( 10 ) ‘ Spinoza,’ by Nourrisson. 

“Now, on the subject of Ecclesiastical History 
we will get, read, and consult : — 

“(i) ‘ Historia Literaria Ecclesiae, ' by Cave. 

“(2; Farrar’s ‘Lives of the Fathers,’ 2 vols. 

“ (3) Cave’s ‘ Lives of the Fathers,’ 3 vols. 

“(4) ‘ Lives of the Fathers,’ by the S. P. C. K. 

“(5) The Bishop of Lincoln (Kaye) on ‘The 
Fathers and Early Councils. ’ 

“(6) ‘ Lives of the Fathers,’ by the author of 
4 A Dominican Artist,’ 3 vols. 

“(7) Neander’s ‘ Church History,’ 8 vols. 

“(8) Neale’s ‘ Oriental Church.’” 

Here Father Letheby stopped me, as he broke 
from a suppressed chuckle into uncontrollable 
laughter. 

“Why, Father Dan, what in the world are you 
reading? Don’t you know that you are calling 
out a list of the most rampant heretics and dis- 
believers, every one of whom is probably on the 
Index? Is it possible that you cannot discover 
any English Catholic authorities on these sub- 
jects? ” 

“I have not seen them,” I said mournfully. 
“ And do you mean to say that all these Protes- 


276 My New Curate 

tants, and many of them, you say, infidels, have 
not been interested in these subjects?” 

“ Well, I presume they would not have gone to 
the vast trouble of accumulating material, and 
writing ponderous volumes otherwise.” 

“And what are we doing? And if ever these 
grave subjects become of importance or inter- 
est to our youth, say in the higher systems of 
education, what books can we put into their 
hands ? ” 

We were both in a brown study. These things 
make men thoughtful. At last Father Letheby 
said : — 

“How do they manage in the German and 
French universities, I wonder?” 

“Depend upon it,” I replied, “there is no lack 
of Catholic authors on every subject there. And 
I ’m told the Italian priests take an extraordinary 
interest in these higher studies. And in France 
every French priest thinks he is bound to write 
at least one book.” 

“I never understood the importance of this 
matter till I met Ormsby,” said Father Letheby. 
“ He opened my eyes. By the way, Father Dan, 
I must congratulate you on the impression you 
have made there. Some things you said have 
made a vivid impression on him. He keeps on 
saying : * A sixth sense ! A sixth sense. Per- 
haps he is right, after all. ’ And that dependence 
on the prayers of little children and the afflicted 


Madonna Mia 277 

touched him deeply. Do you know, I think 
he ’ll come ’round.” 

“ God grant it,” I said, rising. “ But I suppose 
this little project of ours is knocked on the 
head.” 

“ You mean the books ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“I fear so. The fact is, Father Dan, I find I 
have no time. Between my two hours with the 
choir on Tuesdays and Fridays, the Saturday and 
Sunday evenings in the church, the occasional 
evening out, and my correspondence, I don’t 
know where to get time to fit in everything. And 
now that you have been so good as to secure the 

sympathy of the editor of the for me, I 

think I may do something for him at intervals.” 

“ I have regretted a few things during my life, 
young man,” I said; “but I never regretted any- 
thing so much as to have sent on that poem of 
yours instead of sending it up the chimney.” 

“My dear Father Dan,” said he, “what are 
you saying? Don’t you know that the Pope him- 
self writes poetry, and writes it well ? ” 

“ May God forgive him ! ” I said fervently. 
Then I got sorry, as this was not reverent, and 
a bright thought struck me. 

“What kind of poetry does His Holiness 
write ? ” 

“Why, the most beautiful Latin elegiacs and 
hexameters. ” 


278 My New Curate 

“I thought so,” I said triumphantly. “I 
knew that the Holy Father would write nothing 
but in the style of the divine Mantuan. If you 
do anything that way, my boy, I ’ll forgive you. 
Keep to your classics, keep to your classics, and 
you ’re all right.” 

It was delightful to find us, the last remnant 
of the great generation of the classical priests of 
Ireland, backed up by the first authority in the 
world. 

It was twilight when I left, and I made my 
usual detour around our hamlet. Outside the 
village and just beyond the school-house, in a 
little cottage whose diamond windows are almost 
hidden under green creepers, lived Alice Moylan, 
the head monitress in our little school. I rather 
liked Alice, for when she was a little child of 
seven years, she gave me an idea of something 
for which I had been long seeking. It was a 
few years back, when I had not laid up my pen 
finally, but still retained the belief, with a cer- 
tain author, that “there is no greater mental 
excitement, and scarcely a sweeter one, than 
when a young man strides up and down his room, 
and boldly resolves to take a quire of writing 
paper and turn it into a manuscript.” And in 
these latter days of life I still sought for a vision 
of our Lady, which I could keep before my 
imagination when writing certain things in her 


Madonna Mia 279 

honor. Now (perhaps I have already said it), I 
had a peculiar devotion to the Child-Virgin of 
the Temple and of the House of Nazareth, where 
in the noontide the Archangel entered and spoke 
his solemn words. And I never said the Mag- 
nificat but on my knees and with a full heart, as 
I thought on the Child-Prophetess of Hebron and 
the wondering aged saints. But I sought her 
face everywhere in vain — in pictures, in the 
faces of my little children; but not one came up 
to my ideal of what the little maiden of the 
Temple and Nazareth was like. At last, one 
day, little Alice came, and in her sweet oval 
face, and calm, entreating eyes and raven hair, 
subdued beneath such a dainty frilled headdress, 
I saw our Blessed Lady and wondered and was 
glad. And in those days of her simple child- 
hood, before the awful dawn of self-consciousness, 
I used dream and dream, and put into form my 
dreams ; and the face that haunted all my sacred 
and poetic conceptions of our dear Queen was the 
face of little Alice. But the child grew, and 
waxed in strength, but waned in beauty, — at 
least the beauty I regarded when the white soul 
looked out of the beautiful childish face. But 
Alice grew to be the village beauty, and she 
knew it. Every one told her of it ; but her chief 
admirer was the little milliner, who lived down 
near the post-office, and whose simple life was a 
mixture of very plain, prosaic poverty, and very 


280 My New Curate 

high and lofty romance. From this Miss Levis, 
who was a confirmed novel-reader, Alice learned 
that “ she had the face and form of an angel ” ; 
that “ her eyes had a velvety softness that drew 
you like an enchanted lake ” ; that these same 
eyes were “ starry in their lustrous beauty ” ; that 
she had “the complexion of a creole, or rather 
the healthy pallor of the high-born aristocracy of 
England”; that “her figure was willowy and 
swayed like a reed in the wind ” ; and all the 
other curious jargon of the novelette — the deadly 
enemy of simplicity and innocence. Then Alice 
grew proud and vain, and her vanity culminated 
on the night of our concert in November, when 
she drew up for the first time her luxuriant black 
hair and tied it in a knot and bound it in a fillet, 
which was said to be the mode a la Grecque. But 
she was a very pure, innocent girl withal, and 
exceedingly clever in her work at school. 

I had missed her recently, but had been occu- 
pied with other thoughts until the time came for 
the quarterly salaries of the teachers; and I 
noticed in the returns from the principal teacher 
that Alice had been absent the greater part of 
the time. This evening, after leaving Father 
Letheby, I determined to call, unprepared to 
witness the little tragedy that was before me — 
one of those little side-scenes in the great drama 
of existence, which God turns suddenly to the 
front lest we should ever mistake the fact that 


Madonna Mia 281 

our little world is a stage, and that we have all 
the denizens of the veiled eternities for our audi- 
ence. Mrs. Moylan was one of those beautiful 
Irish mothers, who, having passed through the 
stress and storm of life, was moving calmly into 
the great sea of Death and Eternity. She had 
one of those Irish faces that were so typical of 
our race some years ago, and the intense resig- 
nation and patience of which rivalled the sweet 
innocence of our little Irish children for the 
admiration of such a keen and sympathetic 
observer as Dr. Newman. There were a few 
wrinkles in the pallid cheeks, and one or two 
lines across the white forehead, crowned with the 
clean white cap which our Irish mothers wear. 
She looked, I thought, a little reproachfully at 
me as I entered, but only welcomed me with that 
courteous reverence which makes us priests so 
often humbled and ashamed. After a few words 
I inquired for Alice. 

“ My poor child hasn’t been well, your rever- 
ence. We were jealous that you never asked for 
her.” 

I protested my utter ignorance of her illness, 
and inquired what was the ailment. 

“You can see yourself, your reverence,” the 
poor mother said, silently wiping away a tear. 
“But,” she whispered, “don’t pretend to see 
anything. She feels it very much.” 

I passed into the little chamber and was mak- 


282 My New Curate 

ing my apologies to the poor child, when, in 
spite of her mother’s warning, I started back, 
shocked and horror-stricken. 

“Good God,” I could not help crying out, 
“what has happened to you, my poor child?” 

She smiled faintly, and then a tear rolled down 
the leprous cheek. Ay ! indeed ! my poor little 
Madonna, my little child, whose beauty was such 
a dream of Paradise, was changed. The large, 
lustrous eyes were untouched; but the fair cheek 
was one hideous, leprous sore. The black, glossy 
hair was now a few dirty wisps. The child, 
whose face and figure every one turned around to 
look at a second time, was now a revolting 
mummy, seamed and scarred by some terrible 
disease. I had presence of mind enough to take 
up the thin, white hand; she picked the coverlet 
and said nothing. Pier heart was too full of her 
misery to utter a word. I could only say: — 

“ My poor child ! my poor child ! ” 

I turned to the mother. 

“ This is too dreadful ! What has happened ? ” 

“Dreadful enough, your reverence,” she cried; 
“but welcome be the will of God!” 

“ But what has happened ? ” I cried. 

Then I thought it would be a relief to the poor 
child’s feelings to tell me her own sad tale, so I 
said : — 

“Never mind! Alice will tell me all herself. 
Now, my child, tell me all.” 


Madonna Mia 283 

She did, with all the humility and such gentle 
submission to God’s decree that I wept freely. 
It would appear that on the afternoon of that 
November concert, Alice, like so many other 
girls, was very much engrossed in her prepara- 
tions for the evening. She had studied the 
“ Young Lady’s Journal” and several other 
works of interest and usefulness, and all day 
long was highly excited over her appearance. 
Once, when she was particularly engaged at the 
looking-glass, she heard some one fumbling at 
the half-door, as if anxious to come into the 
kitchen. Angry at being disturbed, she burst 
from her room, and saw in the framework of the 
door an awful sight. It was a poor woman, whose 
face was completely eaten away by a dread 
disease called nasal polypus. The nose was 
completely gone and the upper lip. The eyes 
stared out as if from a death’s-head. The poor 
creature begged for alms; but Alice, flushed at 
the thought of her own beauty, and in a rage 
from being called away from her glass, clapped 
her hands and shouted : — 

“Well, you are a beauty.” 

“Not so handsome as you, alanna,” said the 
afflicted one. “ There was wance when, perhaps, 

I was. But your time may come. Mockin’ is 
catchin’. Mockin’ is catchin’.” 

And with these words the woman strode away. 

“ I could not get the thought of my sin out of 


284 My New Curate 

my head all that day,” continued Alice; “her 
face was always coming before me, until at last I 
gave up looking at the glass. But when the 
night came and we were all in the concert-room, 
my vanity came back again, for I heard people 
whisper as I was passing, and my foolish head 
was turned. Then, when it was all over, and 
the girls broke into groups, and the people were 
all around, I tried to attract more attention. 
And I had been reading of a trick in the novels 
for making one’s self more interesting by stand- 
ing on tiptoe and opening the eyes widely ; and, 
God help me! I was practising this foolishness, 
thinking that some of the young men were admir- 
ing me for it, when suddenly Father Letheby 
saw me, and he gave me a look that struck me 
like a flash of lightning. I felt dazed and blinded, 
and asked one of the girls to take me from the 
room and lead me home. But all that night I 
never slept, the woman’s face and the awful look 
that Father Letheby gave me were staring at 
me out of the curtains and out of the dark, until 
late in the morning I fell into a sleep, only to 
dream the same dreadful things.” 

Here the poor girl broke down and sobbed in 
an agony of remorse. 

“Well, then, Father, I got up sick and sorrow- 
ful, and before my breakfast I went over there to 
the Blessed Virgin’s altar and said a Rosary, and 
begged and prayed her not to punish me for what 


Madonna Mia 285 

I had done. Sure, I said, ’twas only a girl’s 
foolishness and I was young; and I promised then 
and there to give up novel-reading and to be 
good, and to let my hair fall down, and to drop 
all my foolish notions; but ’t was no use. I saw 
something in the face of the Blessed Virgin that 
frightened me, and I knew I was in for some- 
thing. I didn’t think my punishment would be 
so dreadful.” 

Here the poor child sobbed again, and picked 
the coverlet mournfully as she tried to choke 
down her emotion. I looked over at that statue 
of the Blessed Virgin and shook my head 
reproachfully. 

“ Oh! Father, why does God punish us so 
terribly for such small sins ? ” the poor girl went 
on. “And what must purgatory be, and what 
must hell be when He punishes us so dreadfully 
here ! I thought ’t was all over and my fear was 
vanishing, when one Sunday morning, dressing 
for Mass, I noticed a tiny pimple here on my 
cheek. It wasn’t as big as the head of a pin; 
but it gave me great trouble. Not that I sus- 
pected anything; but when our poor heads are 
turned with vanity, you don’t know. Father, 
what a worry these little blemishes are. I just 
touched it with my finger and it bled. That 
night ’twas an angry spot. I used everything I 
could think of — lard, and butter, and ointment. 
No use. Every day it grew and grew and grew 


286 My New Curate 

into an ugly sore. Then I wrote, as Miss Levis 
advised me, to a London doctor, recommended in 
the journals; he sent me a prescription — ” 

“ For nothing? ” I interjected. 

“No, indeed, Father. Before I was done with 
him it cost me a pound. But I applied his cos- 
metics and became daily worse. Then my 
mother spoke of making rounds. But I wouldn’t 
leave her. I went to the school every day, but I 
saw the girls watching me. I heard them whis- 
per to each other, and sometimes I caught their 
words. They weren’t kind. Then I stopped 
away. One day, while I was sitting at the door 
knitting, suddenly the sun was darkened, and there 
was the dreadful face of that woman over me. 

“‘I ’m asking charity for God’s sake,’ she said. 
“ I got up humbly and gave her bread and two- 
pence. She looked at me keenly and said : ‘ God 
save you, alanna, and purtect you from misfor- 
tune. Sure, ’twas only a hasty word you said. 
God save you and purtect you, alanna! * 

“ Then the frightful anger of God coming down 
upon me suddenly flashed upon me, and I flung 
aside my knitting and rushed into this room, and 
cried and screamed, and bit the counterpane until 
I tore it in threads, and shrieked : — 

“‘Don’t! don’t, O Lord; Oh, don’t ! don’t ! ’ 
“And then I turned to the Blessed Virgin and 
said the little prayer ‘ Remember ’ that you taught 
us, Father; ‘ Remember;’ and then I said: — 


Madonna Mia 287 

“‘You won’t let Him, Mother! you won’t let 
Him ! Did n’t you say you would n’t let Him ? ’ 

“But the face stared down at me pitilessly, 
pitilessly. There was no hope.” 

The poor child stopped again, and to relieve 
her from the pain of memory I said : — 

“But wasn’t the doctor called in all this time? 
The doctor is very clever, you know.” 

“Oh, he was, Father! And he was very kind. 
But he was very angry; and I think, Father, he 
cursed when I told him about these London 
cosmetics. And one day he asked mother a lot 
of queer questions about father and grandfather ; 
and then he said something about ‘ strumous ’ and 
‘ hereditary; ’ and he has done me no good.” 

“Did Father Letheby call?” I asked. 

“ Oh, dear, yes, that was my only consolation. 
He calls twice a week, sometimes three times; 
and he brought Miss Campion, and she comes 
every day and reads for hours with me ; and look 
at those violets and lilies of the valley — ’twas 
she brought them ; and sometimes a strange 
gentleman comes with her, and he sits down and 
talks and puts queer questions to me — all about 
God, and what I do be doing, and what I do be 
thinking. But since Father Letheby told me 
that there is something behind it all that I don’t 
understand, and that some day I will understand 
it, and see it is all God’s love and not His anger, 
I am quite resigned, Father, and I do be saying 


4 


288 My New Curate 

all day : * Thy Will be done ! Thy Will be done. * 
But I break down when I think of all I ’ve gone 
through. ” 

“Let me see,” I said, as a light began to dawn 
upon me; “you are now perfectly resigned, my 
poor child, are you not? ” 

“Oh! yes, Father; and really happy. Only 
for mother, who frets about me so much, I 
wouldn’t care to be well again. Sure, as Father 
Letheby says, I don’t know but that something 
dreadful was in store for me; and that God, in 
His mercy, has just saved me.” 

“ Quite right ! quite right ! my child. And 
tell me now, — this strange gentleman, — has 
he ever asked you to pray for him?” 

“He did, Father. And I didn’t like it at 
first; but Father Letheby said I should. And I 
have been saying a Rosary for him every day 
since. And the last day he was here he asked 
me : ‘ Now, Alice, tell me the plain truth. Are 
you glad this has happened you?’ I hesitated 
for a moment, then I looked at the Wounds of 
our Lord, and I said firmly : * I am. * And he 
said: ‘ Do you believe God will give you back 
your beauty, and make it a hundred times greater 
in heaven for all you have suffered here ? ’ And 
I said confidently: ‘I do.’ ‘Alice, my child, 
will you pray and pray strongly for me?’ I said : 
‘ I will, sir.’ And he went away looking happy. 
But, you know, Father, these are my good times, 


Madonna Mia 289 

when I feel resigned and think God is using me 
for His own wise purposes; welcome be His 
Holy Will ! But I am sometimes bad, and I get 
unhappy and miserable, and I ask myself : ‘ Why 
did God do it ? Why did God do it ? ’ And once 
I said to our Blessed Lady, when she looked so 
cold and stern, — I said — ” 

“ What did you say, dear? ” 

“ I said : * If Daddy Dan was here, he would n’t 
let you do it. ’ ” 

And the poor child smiled at her own childish- 
ness and simplicity. 

“But that’s not all, Father. I have told no 
one but mother and you ; but I’m all one running 
sore down to my feet, and the doctor said some- 
thing about an operation the other day. Sure, 
you won’t allow that, Daddy Dan, will you?’’ 

She was rolling one of the buttons in my sleeve 
round and round in her thin fingers, and looking 
wistfully at me. 

“No, my child, no operation! You have gone 
through too much for that. But now cheer up, 
Alice, it will all come right. Some of these 
days you will see how our dear Lord and His 
Holy Mother love you. Why, don’t you know, 
you little goose, that these are signs of your 
predestination? Don’t you remember all that 
you have learned about the saints, and how they 
prayed to be afflicted? ” 

“ I do, Daddy Dan.” 


19 


290 My New Curate 

“ And don’t you remember all about those holy 
women that were marked with the wounds of our 
Divine Lord ? ” 

“I do, Daddy Dan.” 

‘‘Very well! Now you ’re one of them. The 
Lord has made you His own. Now, good by. 
I ’ll come to see you every day in future. But 
pray! pray! pray! won’t you?” 

“I will, Daddy Dan! Will you come to- 
morrow ? ” 

This was all very well ; but I was as cross as 
a bear with a sore head, notwithstanding. 

“Wisha, then, Mrs. Moylan,” I said, as I was 
leaving the house, “aren’t you the mighty proud 
woman entirely, never to call in your parish 
priest, nor send him word about your poor child! 
What are we coming to, I wonder, when poor 
people are getting so much above themselves?” 

“Well, then, I didn’t like to be troubling your 
reverence. And sure, I thought you knew all 
about it, and that Father Letheby told you.” 

“He didn’t, then. You and he have kept it a 
great secret, — a great secret entirely. Never 
mind. But tell me, is the poor child really 
resigned ? ” 

“Well, indeed she is, your reverence, excep’ 
now and then, when the whole thing comes back 
to her. In fact, she ’s less trouble than when she 
was well. Then nothing could please her. She 


Madonna Mia 291 

was always grumblin’ about her clothes, an’ her 
food; and she was short and peevish. Now she 
is pleased with everythin’. ’T is ‘ whatever you 
like, mother; ’ or ‘ ’t is too good for me, mother; ’ 
or ‘ thank you kindly, mother,’ until sometimes 
I do be wishing that she had some of the old 
sperrit, and take me short in her answers. But, 
sure, ’t is all God’s Blessed and Holy Will. 
Glory be to His Holy Name!” 

I went back through the village again and 
called upon Father Letheby. He was just sitting 
down to dinner. 

”1 don’t want to take away your appetite,” I 
said, refusing the chair which he proffered; “but 
I am for the first time genuinely angry with you. 
I suppose you had your reasons for it; but you 
ought to know that a parish priest has, by every 
law, natural and canonical, the right to know 
about his sick or distressed poor people, and that 
a curate has no right to be keeping these things 
a secret from him. Reticence and secretiveness 
are excellent things in their way; but this too 
may be overdone. I have just been down to Mrs. 
Moylan’s to learn for the first time that her child 
has been sick for nearly two months. You knew 
it and you never told me. Now, I ’ll insist for 
the future that a sick-call book shall be kept in 
the sacristy, and that the name of every patient 
in the parish shall be entered there. Good 
evening.” 


292 My New Curate 

He flushed up, but said nothing. 

I passed the chapel door and went in straight 
up to the altar of the Blessed Virgin. 

“Now,” I said, “ you’ve carried this entirely 
too far. Is this the return I ’ve got for all I ’ve 
done for you for the past fifty years? Think of 
all the Rosaries I said for you, all the Masses I 
offered for you, all the May devotions I estab- 
lished for you, all the Brown Scapulars I gave for 
you — all — all — and this is your return ; and she 
your own child, that I thought was so like you. 
’Pon my word, I think I ’ll blow out that lamp 
and never light it again.” 

The mild, brown eyes looked down on me 
calmly, and then that queer thing called Con- 
science, that jumps up like a jack-in-the-box when 
you least expect it, started at me and began : — 

“What folly is this, Father Dan? Do you 
think you know more than God and His Blessed 
Mother? Do you? Your head is so turned with 
heathen vanity that you think you ought to get 
the reins of the universe into your hands. Here ’s 
your classics, and your Spinoza, and your Cap- 
padocians, and your book-writing, and all your 
castles in the air, and your little children lying 
on their sick-beds and you knowing nothing 
about it. Look sharp, old man, your time is at 
hand, and think what the Judge may do with you 
when His hand presses so tightly on His little 
children.” 


Madonna Mia 293 

I sat down to my dinner, but couldn’t touch a 
bit. It was a nice little dinner, too, — a little 
roast chicken and a scrap of bacon and some nice 
floury potatoes. No use. The thought of that 
child would come before me, and her piteous cry: 
“Oh, don’t, dear Lord, don’t!” and, “ Sure you 
won’t let Him, Mother; you said you wouldn’t;” 
and with a great big lump in my throat I pushed 
aside the plate and went over to the darkening 
window. 

After a time Hannah came in, looked at the 
dishes, and looked at me. 

“ Was there anything wrong with the chicken ? ” 
she said, thinking I was reflecting on her 
cookery. 

“No, Hannah, ’twas all right; but I’m not in 
a humor for eating.” 

She was surprised. So was I. It was the first 
time for many years that I bolted. Thank God, 
a good appetite and His Divine Grace have never 
deserted me. 

“I’m thinkin’ you’re in for somethin’,” she 
said. “And no wondher! I niver knew a man 
to timpt Providence like you. Will you have 
the hot wather, as you ate nothin’ ? ” 

“Don’t mind, Hannah. I ’ll have a cup of tea 
by and by.” 

I sat down to the fire, looking into all its glow- 
ing crevices and crannies, thinking, thinking 
of many things. By and by, in came Father 


294 My New Curate 

Letheby. He was subdued and deferential, but 
evidently very much hurt at my unaccustomed 
rudeness. He stood with his back to the fire, 
looking down on me, and he said, in his best 
Sunday accent, smoothed and ironed : — 

“ I confess, sir, I am still quite at a loss to 
understand your rather — well — forcible remarks 
this evening. I can see, certainly, a great deal 
of reason in your irritation ; and I am not at all 
disposed to contravene the principle that you 
have an indefeasible right to be acouainted with 
the sorrows and trials of your parishioners; but 
pardon me for saying it, I was only carrying 
out, perhaps too logically, your own reiterated 
teaching.” 

“Look here,” said I, “have you had your 
dinner ? ” 

“ Yes, sir,” said he. 

“Well, then, sit down, and have your coffee 
here. Touch that bell.” 

He sat down, and somehow this took a lot of 
the starch out of him. 

“You were saying something,” said I, “about 
my teaching. When did I ever teach you to keep 
the most vital interests of these poor people a 
secret from me?” 

“Well,” said he, balancing the sugar in his 
spoon over the cup, “if there was one lesson 
more than another that was continually dinned 
into my ears, it was : ‘ When a young man comes 



Was there anything wrong with the chicken ? 







296 My New Curate 

much uncharitableness about our brethren from 
you.” 

There now ! How can you be angry with a 
fellow like that? The black cloud turned softly 
into gray, and the gray turned slowly round, and 
showed only the silver lining. 


CHAPTER XXI 


THE FACTORY 

Notwithstanding my gloomy forebodings, I find 
that Father Letheby has eagerly grasped the idea 
of writing on the historical and philosophical 
subjects I had suggested. Where he got books 
of reference I know not, nor can I conjecture; 
but he has a silent way of accomplishing things 
that would seem to a slow-moving mind like my 
own little short of a miracle. When, therefore, 
one fine day in early April I strolled in to see 
him (for that little tiff about the sick child has 
only cemented our friendship), I gasped to see a 
huge pile of quarto manuscript paper in a fair 
way to be soon well blackened, and by the side 
of his writing-table several heavy, leather-lined 
folios, which a certain visitor described as “just 
the kind of book you would take with you for a 
stroll by the seashore, or your annual holiday at 
Lisdoonvarna.” 

“ Hallo ! ” I cried ; “ so you ’re at it. I thought 
you had given it up.” 

“I ’m in for it,” he replied modestly, “for good 
or ill. You see, I recognized some truth in 


298 My New Curate 

what you said, and I determined to do a little to 
take away our reproach. ” 

“ I must say you are a singularly acute and deep 
thinker to recognize my far-seeing, almost Pro- 
methean wisdom; but to tell you the truth, I 
haven’t the faintest idea of what I said to you, 
except to recommend you to do something for the 
spread of Catholic literature.” 

“ Never mind, Father Dan,” he replied, “the 
seed is sown; the die is cast. I intend to scribble 
away now and to submit my manuscript to the 
editor of some ecclesiastical journal. If he 
accepts it, well and good; if he doesn’t, no harm 
done. By the way, you must help me, by looking 
over this translation of the funeral oration of 
St. Gregory Nazianzen on St. Basil. I depend on 
your knowledge of Greek a great deal more than 
on these garbled versions of Scotch or Oxford 
translators. ” 

Isn’t that a nice young man? What could I 
do but go over, then and there, that famous 
panegyric, that has made the author as great as 
his subject. At the end of his papers on the 
“Three Cappadocians,” Father Letheby intends 
to give in Greek, with English translation, pas- 
sages from their sermons and poems. A happy 
idea ! 

“Now, so far so good!” said Father Letheby, 
after this little conference. “The metaphysical 
subject is more difficult to tackle, — a fellow can 


The Factory 299 

be tripped up so easily; but we’ll postpone that 
for the present. Now here are three matters 
that concern us. I think Ormsby is on the point 
of coming over. The prayers of the little chil- 
dren and of that poor Dolores, Alice, have nearly 
pushed open the gates of the Kingdom. At 
least, they ’re creaking on their hinges. Secondly, 
I ’m beginning to get afraid of that young girl. 
Under her awful cross she’s developing such 
sanctity as makes me nervous about guiding her 
any longer. She is going up the eternal hills, 
and my spiritual sight cannot follow. Thirdly, 
we open the shirt-factory on the 20th. I give 
you timely warning, Father Dan, for you are to 
be chairman, and your speech is to be the event 
of the occasion.” 

“Quite an anti-climax from the eternal hills,” 
I said, noticing his tendency to practical issues 
rather than to supernatural evolutions ; “ but now, 
let us see. Are you sure of Ormsby? ” 

“Nearly so. I have left him severely alone — 
told him the matter concerned himself altogether. 
He has given up reading and argumentation of 
every kind. He says the Veni Creator every day. 
But I think, under Heaven, it is the patience and 
divine serenity of this poor child that affect him 
most deeply.” 

“Then he isn’t shocked at her appearance?” 

“ Oh, dear, yes ! He cannot bear to look at 
her. He says it is more like Oriental leprosy 


300 My New Curate 

than anything he has seen in these countries. 
But her gentleness and patience and her realiza- 
tion of the unseen startle him — ” 

“It has startled me more than once,” I replied. 

“And me. I begin to feel almost nervous 
about directing so high a soul. I am glad you 
have noticed it, because you can give me lights.” 

“H’m. You are becoming sarcastic, young 
man. But I feel we are treading on holy ground. 
Let us look to ourselves. How often do you 
give the child Holy Communion?” 

“ Every Sunday and holiday.” 

“ Has she asked for more frequent Com- 
munion ? ” 

“Yes, indeed; but I hesitated.” 

“ Hesitate no longer. Digitus Dei est kic.” 

Of course, I had seen all this myself ; for in a 
quiet, unconscious way this poor child had mani- 
fested even to my purblind eyes the dealings of 
God’s munificence with her. By degrees all the 
old vain regrets after her beauty had yielded to 
perfect resignation; and resignation had grown 
into peace, and peace had been transformed into 
rapture. 

“I used be thinking, Daddy Dan, a good deal 
of what you said to me — how these poor bodies 
of ours were but a little lime, and phosphorus, 
and water; and that we must all go through the 
terrible changes of death ; and what you told me 
of that great saint in Spain and the dead queen ; 


The Factory 301 

but it was only when Father Letheby read to me 
about our Lord, ‘ a worm and no man, ’ 4 a leper 
and accursed by God and afflicted ’ ; ‘and one 
huge sore from the crown of his head to the sole 
of his feet ’ — that I began to think He had made 
me like Himself, welcome be His Will, and 
Holy be His Name!” 

Then I got her a fine big brass Crucifix from 
the Passionist Fathers at Mount Argus, and left 
her to her wonder-working and merciful Master. 
But she has impressed Ormsby profoundly. “ The 
weak things of the world hast Thou chosen to 
confound the strong.” “Thy ways are upon the 
sea, and Thy pathway on the mighty waters, and 
Thy footsteps are unknown.” 

“Well, now,” I said to Father Letheby, get- 
ting out of my reverie, “to come down from the 
Holy Mountain, what ’s this you are saying about 
the shirt-factory? You don’t mean to aver it is 
a fait-accompli ? ” 

“Certainly,” he replied, “everything is ar- 
ranged; and on the 20th a dozen sewing-machines 
will be clicking merrily in the old mill.” 

“You have the lamp of Aladdin,” I said 
admiringly. “ Now, who ’s to be there ? ” 

“ All the gentry and the Mite of the neighbor- 
hood,” he said. 

“Rather a limited audience for a great occa- 
sion,” I couldn’t help saying. 

“No matter,” he cried, rising up; “it is a good 


302 My New Curate 

work, however. But you ’ll take the chair, 
Father Dan, won’t you?” 

“All right,” I replied, but with a little mis- 
giving, for no one knows what necromancy this 
fellow is capable of, and I had already conjured 
up visions of the Lord Lieutenant and the 
Dowager This and the Countess That — “but 
mind you, my speech is to come in at the end ; 
and I promise you they won’t have to look long 
at their watches.” 

“Very good, sir,” he replied, “all is now 
arranged. ” 

I went down to see my little martyr, for she is 
pleased to say that I do her good by my visits. 
There she lay meekly, the big crucifix in her 
hands, and her lips always moving in silent 
prayer. The children often come in to see her, 
she told me, and read by her bedside; for now 
there is no jealousy, nor triumph, but all have 
begun to think that there is a saint in the parish. 
The little milliner used come at the beginning, 
and bring her little novelettes and journals, and 
talk about the fashions, which only made the 
sufferer unhappy. All that is now stopped; and 
the “Clock of the Passion” and the “Visions of 
Catherine Emmerich ” are now her only reading. 

“Mr. Ormsby was here again to-day,” she said. 

“ Indeed. And was he as inquisitive as usual ? ” 

“Nearly,” she said, with a smile. “But do 
you know, Daddy Dan, I think he’ll become a 


The Factory 303 

Catholic. Isn’t it an awful thing not to be a 
Catholic, Daddy Dan ? ” 

“ ’T is, my child. It ’s worse than being born 
blind.” 

“ Now, what would I do if I had not our dear 
Lord” — kissing the crucifix — “and His holy 
Mother? I ’d rather a thousand times be as I am 
than Queen of England.” 

“ Of course. Who brought these flowers ? ” 

“Miss Campion. She calls them lilies of 
the valley. Is it a sin to smell them, Daddy 
Dan ? ” 

“No, child, it is no sin. Nay, ’t is a prayer 
if you glorify God for the wonders He has 
wrought in these tiny leaves.” 

“ But they ’ll fade away and die in a day or two, 
Daddy Dan ! ” 

“ So shall all beautiful things, my child, only 
to be transplanted where there is no rust or 
fading. ” 

“Thank you, Daddy Dan. That’s just what I 
said to Mr. Ormsby. * Do you really believe,’ 
he said, ‘ that it is the love of God that has 
smitten you?’ * Yes, ’ I said firmly. ‘ Do you 
believe that you are all the dearer to Him for 
that He has smitten you ? ’ ‘ Yes, ’ I said, ‘ I ’m 

sure of it.’ ‘ And do you believe that God wil] 
take you out of the grave and build you up far 
fairer than you have been? ’ ‘ I believe it most 

certainly,’ I replied. 'It’s the sublime and the 


304 My New Curate 

impossible,’ he cried. And then he said, — but 
I shouldn’t repeat this, Daddy Dan, — ‘Mind, 
little one, if I become a Catholic, it ’s you have 
made me one.’ But it would be so nice, if only 
to repay Miss Campion for all her goodness.” 

Then I began to think of some holy man that 
said : There should be an invalid and an incur- 
able one in every religious community, if only to 
bring God nearer to them in His great love. 

As I was leaving, Mrs. Moylan pulled me 
aside. 

“ Is there any chance at all, your reverence, of 
her recovery? ” 

She looked with a mother’s wistfulness at 
me. 

“For I do be praying to the Lord morning, 
noon, and night, that if it be His Blessed and 
Holy Will, He would take her out of suffering, or 
restore her to me.” 

I made no answer. 

“You could do it, your reverence, if you liked. 
Sure, I don’t want you to do any harm to your- 
self, God forbid; but you could cure her and 
restore her to me, if you plazed.” 

“I couldn’t, Mrs. Moylan,” I replied; “and 
what is more, I would n’t now take her away from 
God if I could. I was as bitter as you about it; 
but now I see that God has His own designs upon 
your child, and who am I that I should thwart 
Him?” 


The Factory 305 

“Perhaps your reverence is right,” she replied; 
“but the mother’s heart will spake up some- 
times whin it ought to be silent.” 

I passed by my little chapel as I went home, 
and knelt down for a prayer. I thought the, 
Blessed Virgin looked queer at me, as if to 
say : — 

“Well, are you satisfied now? Who was right 
— you or my Son?” And I went home very 
humbled. 

The great day at last arrived. And if I was 
surprised the evening of the concert at the trans- 
formation effected in the old mill, I was still 
more surprised when, entering its precincts on 
the opening day of the Kilronan Shirt-Factory, 

I came face to face with quite a distinguished 
gathering. There were carriages drawn up at 
the door, the liveried coachmen hardly able to 
hold the prancing horses’ heads ; and the owners 
were in the great room upstairs, chatting in 
groups or examining the machines, that, clean 
and bright and polished, only awaited the soft 
touch of human fingers to work wonders. And 
there, on the large table filling up the whole 
centre of the room, was displayed an assortment 
of linen and flannels cut up into as many sections 
as you could take out of all the diagrams of 
Euclid. And there, of course, was the stage, 
undisturbed since the evening of the concert; 


20 


306 My New Curate 

and there were the same flowers and palms, and 
the same little girls dressed in satin, and the 
same piano, and Miss Campion, only waiting the 
signal to commence. 

I moved up through the long hall, making my 
bows to right and left. Father Letheby was 
chatting gayly with some very grand people, and 
pointing out his little improvements here and 
there. He was in his best optimistic humor, 
and was quite at his ease in the groups that sur- 
rounded him. It is curious how we differ. I 
did not feel at all comfortable, for I ’d rather be 
talking over the cross-door to any old woman 
about her chickens, or settling the price of a 
bonham, or lecturing about the measles and the 
croup, than conversing with the grandest people 
of the land. But every one to his tastes; and 
sure, I ought to be proud that my good curate — 

“ I move that the parish priest take the chair. ” 

“I beg to second the proposal,” said a dapper 
young fellow, who looked as if he had stepped 
out of a bandbox. And before I knew where I 
was, I was on the stage ensconced in a comfort- 
able chair; and then there was a burst of music 
around me, which gave me leisure to look about 
and take stock. It was all very nice. There was 
a great group of fine ladies in front, and they 
were all staring at me as if I were a dime-museum 
prodigy. I was “ Gorgonized from head to foot 
with a stony, British stare”; a cool, unblushing, 


The Factory 307 

calculating stare, that made me feel as if I were 
turning into stone. I did not know what to do. 
I tried to cross my legs coolly, but the armchair 
was too low, and I fell back in a most undignified 
manner. Then I placed my hands on my knee’s, 
thinking that this was the correct thing; but it 
struck me immediately that this was the attitude 
at High Mass, and I gave it up as out of place. 
Then I assumed an air of frigid composure, and 
toyed with my watch-chain. But a little girl 
screwed her eyes into me, and said, evidently, in 
her mind: “That old gentleman is a fidget.” 
Then I leaned back gracefully, but something 
whispered: “That’s all right at home, Father 
Dan, but please remember that the convenances of 
society require a different posture;” and I sat 
bolt upright in a moment. My eye caught in a 
blissful moment my new handsome umbrella that 
lay against my chair. I took it up and leaned 
with dignity upon it; but that aforesaid little 
girl looked at me, and looked at her mamma, and 
said — I know she said in her own mind — “That 
old gentleman thinks it is going to rain, and he 
wants to open his umbrella. Mamma, tell him 
that there is no danger of rain here.” I put 
down my umbrella. Then Miss Campion — God 
bless her ! she always comes to my relief — tore 
her little fingers along the keys in a grand finale, 
and then tripped over to her old pastor, and said 
gayly : 


308 My New Curate 

“ Hurrah! Now, Father Dan, for the grand 
speech. Won’t you astonish these heretics?” 

I believe I did astonish them. For, after a 
few preliminaries, I settled down coolly into a 
quiet, deliberate talk; and I saw by degrees the 
stony stare melt away into sunny smiles, and the 
sunny smiles broadened into genteel laughter, 
and there was great clapping of hands, and sup- 
pressed cheers, and altogether I felt that I held 
them all in the palms of my hands. But that 
wicked little girl in the front seats held out a 
long time. She did not know whether to laugh 
or to cry. She blinked her eyes at me, as if to 
be sure it was not a spectral vision ; then looked 
dreadfully alarmed; then consulted her mother’s 
face, now wreathed in smiles; and then, when 
her brother was falling off the seat laughing, and 
poking her with his stick, she condescended to 
relax her awful stare, to smile, to look surprised 
at herself for smiling — at last, to laugh. I knew 
then I had the victory, and I sang, Io Triumphe ! 
in my own mind. 

It is curious and interesting to notice how 
thoroughly these Protestant folk warm to a priest 
the moment they discover he is not quite an 
ogre. All these great people gathered round 
me ; they were so delighted, etc. 

‘‘What’s your name, my dear?” I said to the 
wicked little girl. 

“Nonna!” she replied. 


The Factory 309 

“ By Jove!” I exclaimed, “St. Gregory’s 
mother ! ” 

“Naw,” she said, “it ’s grandmaw’s name.” 

“It’s a pretty name all the same,” I replied; 
“may you wear it as long as grandma.” 

The girls were all sitting at the machines wait- 
ing. Down near the end of the hall were two 
individuals in close conversation. They looked 
prosaic and dull amid all the excitement. When 
I got near them I saw the man, who was looking 
at me steadily, with one eye closed, whilst I was 
speaking. He was an infidel, a Giaour, an 
incredulous, questioning, calculating unbeliever 
in all my rosy forecastings. He was the manager 
over from Loughboro*. The lady was manageress, 
and had come over to superintend the initial pro- 
ceedings at Kilronan. Somehow I didn’t like 
them. They chilled the atmosphere. There was 
that cool, business-like air about them, that 
L. S. D. expression that shears off the rays of 
imagination, and measures and weighs everything 
by the same low standard. I saw Father Letheby 
buoyant, enthusiastic, not merely hopeful, but 
certain of the success of his enterprise. I saw 
these two business people chatting and consulting 
together, and I knew by their looks that they 
were not quite so sanguine. It was “the little 
rift within the lute.” 

As I went home, pondering and thinking, — for 
I did n’t wait for the tea and cake that are sup- 


310 My New Curate 

posed to be essential to all these gatherings, — I 
heard the patter of a light foot behind me, and in 
a minute Bittra was by my side. 

“Dear me!” she panted, “you are so young 
and active, Father Dan, it is hard to keep up 
with you.” 

By which kind sarcasm I knew that Bittra had 
something good to tell me. 

“Shall I call you Bittra or Beata?” I replied, 
looking down at her flushed face. 

“Beata! Beata! Beatissima!” she said, in a kind 
of ecstasy; “it is all right; and God is so good!” 

“I always object to the fireworks style of elocu- 
tion on the part of my curate,” I said, “and if 
you could shed a calm, lambent light on this 
ecstatic episode, it would suit my slow intellect.” 

“Slow,” she said, stopping, — “do you know, 
Father Dan, that is, you do know, that you have 
just made one of the nimblest, wittiest, drollest, 
most eloquent speeches that ever was made. I 

heard Mrs. S say that she never could have 

believed — ” 

“Beata,” I interrupted seriously, “my purga- 
tory will be long enough, I believe. Indeed, if 
I get out in the general exodus on the Day of 
Judgment I shall consider myself happy. Where ’s 
the use in your adding to it, and making an old 
vain man so much vainer? Tell me about what 
is nearest to your heart to-day.” 

Thus soberized, she gave me a fairly consecu- 


The Factory 3 1 1 

tive account of what had happened. I say “ fairly,” 
because, of course, there were many exclamations, 
and notes of interrogation, and “asides,” which 
I let pass without comment. 

Ormsby had paid the suffering child a visit 
that morning, and had put his final theses and 
difficulties before her. Disbeliever in miracles, 
he was face to face with a miracle. That such an 
awful affliction as befell Alice should be accepted, 
not only with resignation, but with joy; that she 
would consider it a positive misfortune to be 
restored to her old beauty, and that she was 
forever thanking God that He had elected her to 
suffering, was either of two things — insanity or 
inspiration. And her faith in the supernatural 
— her intense realization of the existence and the 
daily, hourly influence of our Lord and His 
Blessed Mother, and her profound conviction that 
one day her physical shame and torment would 
intensify her glory in Heaven — all this struck 
him as a revelation, before which the antics of 
spiritualists, and the foreknowledge of Brahmins, 
and the blank agnosticism of science paled into 
contemptible insignificance. 

Bittra, as usual, had been speaking to Mrs. 
Moylan in the kitchen. Sitting on the straw 
chair, she spoke for the hundredth time her words 
of consolation to the poor mother. The murmur 
of voices came clear, but indistinct, from the 
little chamber of the sick girl. Then, after a 


312 My New Curate 

long conference, Ormsby came out, grave and 
collected as usual, and Bittra having said good 
by to the mother, and kissed the leprous face of 
the sick girl, they both walked on in silence, 
until they came to the bridge that spanned the 
fiord near the “great house.” Ormsby leaned on 
the parapet of the bridge looking out over the 
tumbling waters for a long time. Then, turning, 
he said : — 

“Bittra, I must become a Catholic.” 

Then Bittra put her hand in his gloved palm, 
and that was all. 

“And was that all ?” I exclaimed incredulously. 

“That’s all,” said Bittra, “and wasn’t it 
enough ? ” 

“That’s not the way a novelist would wind 
up such a delightful romance,” I said. “There 
would have been at least twenty or thirty pages 
of lurid description.” 

“Ah! but this is not a romance,” said Bittra; 
“this is stern reality.” 

And she tried ineffectually to frown. 

“It only remains now,” she continued, “that 
Rex shall be instructed, and that won’t take 
long; and then received, and make his First 
Communion, and that won’t take long; and then 
— and then — ” 

She paused. I was studying attentively a sea- 
gull that was poised motionless over the heaving 
waters. 


The Factory 313 

“Father Dan, you’re becoming very unkind.” 

“ Indeed ? I was only waiting for the date and 
circumstances of the ‘ then. ’ ” 

“Well, you see, it can’t be May; because the 
people have a foolish superstition about May; 
though I should so like to be — to be — married 
under our Lady’s auspices. But the first day in 
June. Won’t that be delightful? And it must 
be right under the statue of the Sacred Heart; 
and I shall put there such a mass of roses that 
day; and we shall both go to Holy Communion, 
and you ’ll say the nuptial Mass, Father Dan — ” 

“ I ? ” 

“Yes, of course. Who else, I should like to 
know? ” 

“I thought you would be bringing down an 
Archbishop or even a Cardinal — ■” 

“Now, you’re jesting as usual. I’ll have no 
one but you — you — you — to marry me ; and 
perhaps, if I were not asking too much, the choir 
might sing — ” 

“ Certainly ! They must. But I won’t promise 
you that wedding-march by that German fellow — ” 

“ Mendelssohn? ” 

“Yes. That ’s his name, I believe. Nor that 
other march of that other fellow, whom we see 
on the papers. ” 

“I know. You mean the grand march in 
'Lohengrin.’ Why, Father Dan, what a musi- 
cian you are ! Who would ever think it ? ” 


CHAPTER XXII 


THE MAY CONFERENCE 

My mail is not generally a heavy one, thank God ! 
and when I do see a sheaf of letters on my table, 
I feel pretty certain that there is something un- 
pleasant amongst them. I make it a rule, there- 
fore, never to read a letter until breakfast is 
over ; for I think we ought take our food, as the 
Lord intended, with a calm mind. And I am 
not one of those ascetics whom every mouthful 
they swallow seems to choke. I take what God 
sends with a thankful heart, and bless Him for 
it. And sure it was well I followed this whole- 
some practice the following morning; for I do 
not think I ever lost my equanimity so thoroughly 
as when, on opening a circular, I saw a formal 
and extended and appalling syllabus of our Con- 
ferences for that year. Up to this, our Confer- 
ences had been conferences — informal conventions, 
where we met, talked over our little troubles, 
discussed a rubrical or theological question in an 
academic fashion, and listened with patience and 
edification to some young man, who nervously 
read for an hour or so some carefully prepared 
paper on a given subject. Then, if the Master of 


The May Conference 315 

Conferences wanted to show how well read he 
was, he put a few questions here and there around 
the table. But if he was very persistent, and the 
chase became too hot, it was easy to draw a red 
herring across the track, the aforesaid red herring 
generally taking the shape of one of those vener- 
able questions, which, like the trisection of an 
angle, or the quadrature of a circle, or the secret 
of perpetual motion, shall never be finally solved. 
The red herring that did us most service, and 
was now, after the lapse of forty years’ discus- 
sion, a battered skeleton, was “whether invin- 
cible ignorance on the part of the penitent as to 
the reservation of a particular sin excused from 
the reservation, or whether faculties in every case 
were withdrawn from the confessor.’’ I believe 
the question has been warmly debated in the 
schools; but there it remains, suspended, like 
the Prophet’s coffin (I am afraid my metaphors 
are getting mixed), between heaven and earth. 

But altogether these conferences were nice, 
pleasant occasions for meeting the brethren and 
exchanging ideas. What was my consternation 
this morning to read a series of new rules, as 
dogmatic as an Act of Parliament, which put an 
end forever to the old order of things, and 
reduced our delightful meetings to a number of 
monthly examinations on Rubrics, Sacred Her- 
meneutics, Theology, and Ecclesiastical History. 
Our names were all to go into a hat, and the 


316 My New Curate 

unfortunate prizeman was to be heckled and cross- 
examined by the chairman for ten minutes, like 
any ordinary Maynooth student at the Christmas 
and Easter examinations. Then came the Con- 
ference, after three or four poor fellows had 
been turned inside out. This was a paper to be 
read for three-quarters of an hour. Then came 
another cross-examination of that unhappy man; 
then a series of cross-questions, after we had all 
gone into the hat again. “ And then,” I said to 
myself with chagrin and disgust, “they will 
gather up all that remains of us from the floor 
and send us home for decent interment.” Here 
is one little trifle, that would easily fill up a half- 
year’s study in a theological seminary: — 

PRO MENSE AUGUSTO. 

( Die I ma Mensis.) 

1. Excerpta ex Statutis Dioecesanis et Nationalibus. 

2. De Inspiratione Canonicorum Librorum. 

3. Tractatus de Contractibus (Crolly). 

“ Good heavens,” I exclaimed, as Father Letheby 
came in and read down the awful list in the 
second copy which I handed him, “ imagine that ! 
What in the world do bishops think ? It is easy 
for them to be twirling their rings around their 
little fingers and studying the stones in their 
mitres. They have nothing else to do, as we all 
know, except the occasional day’s amusement of 


The May Conference 317 

knocking curates around, as you would pot balls 
on a billiard-table. But what consideration have 
they for us, poor hard-working missionary priests ? 
What do they know about our heavy confessionals, 
our sick-calls, our catechising in the schools, our 
preparing for our sermons, our correspondence for 
our people, with Europe, Asia, Africa, America, 
and Oceanica, our — our — our — look at this ! 
‘ Excerpta ex Statutis ! ’ That means reading over 
every blessed diocesan and national statute, that 
is, two ponderous volumes. Again, ‘ De Inspira- 
tione * — the whole question of the Higher Criti- 
cism, volume after volume, Bull after Bull, 
articles in all the magazines, and the whole 
course of German exegetics. That ’s not enough ! 
But here, as dessert, after junks of Rubrics, and 
indigestible slabs of controverted hermeneutics, 
come the light truffles and pati de foie gras of 
Crolly’s ‘ Contracts.’ Begor, the next thing will 
be they’ll want us to preach our sermons before 
them ; and then this Master of Conferences, — 
he ’s a good fellow and an old classmate of my 
own; but of course he must exhibit his learning, 
and bring in all his Christy minstrel conundrums, 
as if any fool could n’t ask questions that twenty 
wise men could n’t answer; — and then he ’ll 
cock his head, like a duck under a shower, and 
look out of the window, and leave me stuck 
dead — ” 

There was a quiet smile around Father Letheby’s 


3 1 8 My New Curate 

mouth during this philippic. Then he said, 
smoothing out the paper: — 

“ There is a little clause here at the end, which 
I think, Father Dan, just affects you.” 

“Affects me? If there is, it didn’t catch my 
eye. Show it to me.” 

I took the paper, and there, sure enough, was 
a little paragraph : — 

“ 6° The privilege, in virtue of which parish priests of 
a certain standing on the mission are exempted from the 
obligations of the Conference, will be continued.” 

I read that over three times to make quite 
sure of it, my curate looking down smilingly at 
me. 

“If you are not of a certain standing, Father 
Dan, I ’d like to know who is.” 

“True for you,” I replied musingly. “I be- 
lieve I am called the Patriarch of the Conference. ” 

Visions of an old man, leaning back in his 
chair, whilst he was proof-protected against 
theological bullets, swam before me; and I began 
to feel like a man on a safe eminence, overlook- 
ing the battlefield, or a Spanish lady at a bull- 
fight. 

“Ton my word,” I said, at length, “I’m be- 
ginning to think there is something in it, after 
all. The Holy Ghost has something to say to 
our good and holy prelates. There is no doubt 
there was a great waste of time at these Confer- 


The May Conference 319 

ences, and young men got into idle habits and 
neglected their theology; and, you know, that’s 
a serious matter. In fact, it reaches sometimes 
to a mortal sin. We must all study now. And 



“ I read that over three times to make quite sure of it.” 

you see how practical the bishop is. There ’s 
Rubrics. Now, there ’s no doubt at all that a 
good many of us don’t respect the ceremonies of 
the Mass. Go to Lisdoonvarna, and every fellow 
appears to have his own idea of — ” 

“Pardon me, sir,” said Father Letheby, “I 


320 My New Curate 

cannot quite follow you there. I must say I 
never saw the Rubrics half so well carried 
out in England as here at home. In fact, 
this complaint appears to be one of these 
satires on racial characteristics that are only half 
true, and take all their force from traditional 
misrepresentations. ” 

Isn’t that fine language? You see, he’s tak- 
ing a leaf or two out of my book. 

“ Well, but you can’t deny that this question 
of Scriptural exegesis is one of these dominant 
questions that must arrest the attention of all 
who are interested in ecclesiastical or h.ieratical 
studies,” said I, trying to keep pace with him. 

“Quite true,” he said; “and yet I should like 
jp see these new-fangled theories about Scriptural 
inspiration, plenary or otherwise, lifted from the 
shaking quagmires of conjecture onto the solid 
ground of demonstration.” 

“You cannot deny whatever,” I replied, just 
before giving in, “that Crolly’s ‘Contracts’ is 
solid and well-reasoned and coherent argument; 
and look at its vast importance. It touches every 
question of social and civil life — ” 

“It is an excellent heliograph in sunny 
weather,” he said; “but what about a muggy 
and misty day?” 

“Well, God bless the bishop, whatever,” I 
replied, throwing up the sponge; “if we haven’t 
the ablest theologians, the smartest Master of 


The May Conference 321 

Ceremonies, and the best Orientalists in Ireland, 
it won’t be his fault. Dear me, how far-seeing 
and practical he is ! ” 

“But about his ring and his mitre, sir?” said 
my curate. “You were pleased to make some 
observations a few minutes ago — ” 

“That’ll do now,” I replied. “My mare will 
be ready the morning of the Conference. You ’ll 
drive, and we must be in time.” 

That was a pleasant drive. May in Ireland ! 
What does it mean? It means coming out of a 
dark tunnel into blinding sunshine; it means 
casting off the slough of winter, and gliding with 
crest erect and fresh habiliments under leafy 
trees and by the borders of shining seas, the 
crab-apple blossoms, pink and white, scenting 
the air over your head, and primroses and violets 
dappling the turf beneath your feet; it means 
lambs frisking around their tranquil mothers in 
the meadows, and children returning at evening 
with hands and pinafores full of the scented cow- 
slip and the voluptuous woodbine; it means the 
pouring of wine-blood into empty veins, and the 
awakening of torpid faculties, and the deeper, 
stronger pulsations of the heart, and the fresh 
buoyancy of drooping and submerged spirits, 
and white clouds full of bird-music, as the larks 
call to their young and shake out the raptures of 
their full hearts, and the cheery salutations of 
the ploughmen, as the coulter turns over the rich, 


21 


322 My New Curate 

brown soil, and the rooks follow each furrow for 
food. 

“A grand day, Mick!” 

“ Grand, your reverence, glory be to God ! ” 

“ Good weather for the spring work.” 

“ Could n’t be better, your reverence.” 

We ’re out of hearing in a flash, for the little 
mare feels the springtime in her veins, and she 
covers the road at a spanking pace. 

“ You ’ve thrown off twenty years of age, to-day, 
Father Dan,” said Father Letheby, as he looked 
admiringly at his old pastor, then turned swiftly 
to his duty, and shook out the ribbons, and then 
drew them together firmly, and the little animal 
knew that a firm hand held her, and there was 
no fear. 

* “ No wonder, my boy,” I cried ; “ look at that ! ” 
And I pointed to the avrjpiOfiov yeXacr/xa of old 
^Fschylus; but what was his JEgean or even his 
Mare Magnum to the free and unfettered Atlantic ? 
Oh ! it was grand, grand ! What do I care about 
your Riviera, and your feeble, languid Mediter- 
ranean? Give me our lofty cliffs, sun-scorched, 
storm-beaten, scarred and seamed by a thousand 
years of gloom and battle; and at their feet, firm- 
planted, the boundless infinity of the Atlantic! 

We were in time, and I was snugly ensconced 
in my old corner up near the bishop’s chair before 
the priests began to throng in. Now, I ’d like to 
know this. If an old gentleman, not hitherto 


The May Conference 323 

very remarkable for dandyism, chooses to brush 
his white, silvered hair over his coat-collar, 
and has put on a spotless suit of black cloth, and 
sports his gold chain and seals conspicuously, and 
wears his spectacles easily, and drops them in a 
genteel manner on the silk ribbon that is sus- 
pended around his neck; and if he is altogether 
neat and spruce, as becomes an ecclesiastic of 
some* standing in his diocese, is that a reason 
why he should be stared at, and why men should 
put their hands in their pockets and whistle, and 
why rather perky young fellows should cry 
“ Hallo!” and whisper, “Who’s the stranger?” 
And even why the bishop, when he came in, and 
we all stood up, should smile with a lot of mean- 
ing when I kissed his sapphire ring and told him 
how well he looked ? 

“And I can reciprocate the compliment, Father 
Dan,” his Lordship said; “I never saw you look 
better. All these vast changes and improvements 
that you are making at Kilronan seem to have 
quite rejuvenated you.” 

Father Letheby, at the end of the table, looked 
as demure as a nun. 

“I must congratulate your Lordship also,” I 
said, “on these radical changes your Lordship 
has made in the constitution of our Conference. 
It is quite clear that your Lordship means to 
give full scope to the budding talent of the 
diocese.” 


324 My New Curate 

A groan of dissent ran round the table. 

‘‘I’m afraid you must give up your Greek 
studies, Father Dan," said the bishop; “you’ll 
have barely time now to master the subject- 
matter of the Conference." 

“That’s true, my Lord, indeed," I replied, “it 
would take twenty hours out of the twenty-four, 
and seven days out of every week to meet all 
these demands, at least for a valetudinarian (‘ Oh ! 
Oh!’ from the table). But your Lordship, with 
your usual consideration, has taken into account 
the nimble intellects of these clever young men, 
and exempted the slow-moving, incomprehensive 
minds of poor old parish priests like myself.” 
(“No! No!! No!!!" from the table.) 

“Now, now," said the Master of Conferences, a 
thin, tall, high cheek-boned, deep-browed, eagle- 
eyed priest, whom I have already introduced as 
“a great theologian," “this won’t do at all. 
We ’re drifting into the old ways again. I 
mustn’t have any desultory conversation, but 
proceed at once to business. Now, my Lord, 
would you kindly draw a name ? ” 

“Put in Father Dan! Put in Father Dan!" 
came from the table. 

The bishop smilingly drew up number four; 
and the chairman called upon Father Michael 
Delany. 

Father Michael squirmed and twisted in his seat. 
He was a very holy man, but a little peppery. 


The May Conference 325 

“Now, Father Michael,” said the chairman 
blandly, “we’ll take the Rubrics first. Let me 
see. Well, what do you do with your hands dur- 
ing the celebration of the Holy Sacrifice?” 

“ What do I do with my hands ? ” said Father 
Michael sullenly. 

“Yes; what do you — do — with your hands?” 

“That’s a queer question,” said Father 
Michael. “I suppose I keep them on me.” 

“Of course. But I mean what motions — or 
shall we call them gestures? — do you use? ” 

“ What motions? ” 

“Yes. Well, I’ll put it this way. There’s 
an admirable book by an American priest, Father 
Wapelhorst, on the Ceremonies. Now, he wisely 
tells us in the end of the book what things to 
avoid. Could you tell me what to avoid — what 
not to do in this matter? ” 

“Don’t you know, Father Michael?” said a 
sympathetic friend; “go on. Elevans et ex - 
tendens — ” 

“Young man,” said Father Michael, “thank 
you for your information, but I can manage my 
own business. What’s this you were saying?” 
he cried, turning to the Master of Conferences. 

“What mistakes might a priest make with his 
hands during celebration ? ” 

“What mistakes? Well, he might put them 
in his pocket or behind his back, or — ” 

“Never mind, never mind. One question 


326 My New Curate 

more. If you wore a pileolus, zucchetto, you 
know, at what part of the Mass would you remove 
it?” 

"I wouldn’t wear anything of the kind,” said 
Father Michael; “the five vestments are enough 
for me, without any new-fangled things from 
Valladolid or Salamanca.” 

The chairman had graduated at Salamanca. 

“My Lord,” I interposed charitably, “I don’t 
want to interfere with this interesting examina- 
tion, but my sense of classical perfection and 
propriety is offended by this word in the syllabus 
of to-day’s Conference. There is no such word 
in the Latin language as ‘ Primigeniis, ’ — ‘ De 
Primigeniis textibus Sacrae Scripturae — ’ ” 

“Now, Father Dan, this won’t do,” shouted 
the chairman. “ I see what you ’re up to. There 
must be no interruptions here. Very good, 
Father Michael, very good indeed! Now, we’ll 
take another. Father Dan, if you interrupt again, 
I ’ll put you into the hat. Well, number eighteen ! 
Let me see. Ah, yes. Father Irwin!” 

Poor Father Michael looked unhappy and dis- 
comfited. It is a funny paradox that that good 
and holy priest, who, his parishioners declared, 
“said Mass like an angel,” so that not one of 
his congregation could read a line of their prayer- 
books, so absorbed were they in watching him, 
could n’t explain in totidem verbis the Rubrics he 
was daily and accurately practising. 


The May Conference 327 

Which, perhaps, exemplifies a maxim of the 
Chinese philosopher: — 

“ One who talks does not know. 

One who knows does not talk. 

Therefore the sage keeps his mouth shut, 

And his sense-gates closed.” 

Before Father Irwin was questioned, however, 
there was a delightful interlude. 

Some one asked whether it was lawful for any 
one, not a bishop, to wear a zucchetto during the 
celebration of Mass. As usual, there was a 
pleasant diversity of opinion, some contending 
that the privilge was reserved to the episcopate, 
inasmuch as the great rubricists only contemplated 
bishops in laying down the rules for the removal 
and assumption of the zucchetto; others again 
maintained that any priest might wear one; and 
others limited the honor to regulars, who habitu- 
ally wore the tonsure. The chairman, however, 
stopped the discussion peremptorily, and again 
asked (this time a very aged priest) the question 
he had put to Father Delany. The old man 
answered promptly: — 

“ The zucchetto, or pileolus, is removed at the 
end of the last secret prayer, and resumed after 
the ablutions.” 

“ Quite right,” said the chairman. 

“By the way,” said the old man, “you pro- 
nounce that word pileolus. The word is 
pileolus.” 


328 My New Curate 

“The word is pileolus,” said the chairman, 
whose throne wasn’t exactly lined with velvet 
this day. 

“Pardon me. The word is pileolus. You 
find it as such in the scansions of Horace.” 

“This is your province, Father Dan,” said the 
bishop. “There ’s no one in the diocese so well 
qualified to adjudicate here — ” 

“ ‘ Vixere fortes ante Agamemnona 
Multi — ’ 

my Lord ! ” said I. I was drawing the bishop out. 
“ There were ironical cheers at ‘Agamemnona.’ ” 

“ * Mutato nomine, de te 
Fabula narratur,’ ” 

said the bishop, smiling. “Of course, we have 
many a rich depositary of classical lore here, 

* At suave est ex magno tollere acervo.’ ” 

“My Lord,” said I, pointing around the table, 

“ ‘ Omnes hi metuunt versus, odere poetas,’ ” — 
(“Oh! Oh! Oh!” from the Conference.) 

“ ‘ Nec recito cuiquam nisi amicis, idque coactus 
Non ubivis coramve quibuslibet.’ ” 

Here the Master of Conference, seeing that the 
bishop was getting the worst of it, though his 
Lordship is a profound scholar, broke in: — 

* “‘Ohe! 

Jam satis est ! Dum aes exigitur, dum mula ligatur, 
Tota abit hora.’ ” 


The May Conference 329 

He looked at me significantly when he said, 
“dum mula ligatur,” but I had the victory, and I 
did n’t mind. 

“Now, look here, Father Dan, you’re simply 
intolerable. The Conference can’t get along so 
long as you are here. You are forever intruding 
your classics when we want theology.” 

“ I call his Lordship and the Conference to 
witness,” I said, “that I did not originate this 
discussion. In fact, I passed over in charitable 
silence the chairman’s gross mispronunciation of 
an ordinary classical word, although I suffered 
the tortures of Nessus by my forbearance — ” 

“There will be no end to this, my Lord,” said 
the chairman. “That’ll do, Father Dan. Now, 
Father Irwin.” 

I was silent, but I winked softly at myself. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


A BATTLE OF GIANTS 

“ Now, Father Irwin,” said the chairman, ad- 
dressing a smart, keen-looking young priest who 
sat at the end of the table, “you have just come 
back to us from Australia; of course, everything 
is perfect there. What do you think — are the 
particles in a ciborium, left by inadvertence, out- 
side the corporal during consecration consecrated? 
Now, just reflect for a moment, for it is an impor- 
tant matter.” 

“Unquestionably they are,” said the young 
priest confidently. 

“They are not,” replied the chairman. “The 
whole consensus of theologians is against you.” 

“For example?” said Father Irwin coolly. 

“ Wha-at ? ” said the chairman, taken quite 
aback. 

“I doubt if all theologians are on your side,” 
said Father Irwin. “Would you be pleased to 
name a few?” 

“Certainly,” said the chairman, with a pitying 
smile at this young man’s presumption. “ What 
do you think of Benedict XIV., Suarez, and St. 
Alphonsus? ” 


A Battle of Giants 331 

The young man did n’t seem to be much crushed 
under the avalanche. 

“They held that there should be reconsecra- 
tion ? ” 

“ Certainly.” 

“Let me see. Do I understand you aright? 
The celebrant intends from the beginning to 
consecrate those particles?” 

“Yes.” 

“The intention perseveres to the moment of 
consecration ? ” 

“ Yes ! ” 

“And, the materia being quite right, he in- 
tends to consecrate that objective, that just lies 
inadvertently outside the corporal ? ” 

“ Quite so.” 

“And you say that Benedict XIV., Suarez, and 
St. Alphonsus maintain the necessity of recon- 
secration ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“Then I pity Benedict XIV., Suarez, and St. 
Alphonsus.” 

There was consternation. The bishop looked 
grave. The old men gaped in surprise and horror. 
The young men held down their heads and 
smiled. 

“ I consider that a highly improper remark, as 
applied to the very leading lights of theological 
science,” said the chairman, with a frown. And 
when the chairman frowned it was not pleasant. 


332 My New Curate 

The bishop’s face, too, was growing tight and 
stern. 

“Perhaps I should modify it,” said the young 
priest airily. “ Perhaps I should have rather said 
that modern theologians and right reason are 
dead against such an opinion.” 

“ Quote one modern theologian that is opposed 
to the common and universal teaching of theo- 
logians on the matter!” 

“Well, Ballerini, for example, and the Sal- 
manticenses — ” 

“ Psha ! Ballerini. Ballerini is to upset every- 
thing, I suppose?” 

“Ballerini has the Missal and common sense 
on his side.” 

“The Missal?” 

“ Yes. Read this — or shall I read it? 

“ ( Quidquid horum deficit, scilicet materia debita, 
forma cum intentione, et ordo sacerdotalis, non confici- 
tur Sacramentum ; et his existentibus, quibuscunque aliis 
deficientibus, veritas adest Sacramenti.’ ” 

“Quite so. The whole point turns on the 
words cum intentione. The Church forbids, under 
pain of mortal sin, to consecrate outside the cor- 
poral ; consequently, the priest cannot be pre- 
sumed to have the intention of committing a 
grave just at the moment of consecration; and, 
therefore, he cannot be supposed to have the 
intention of consecrating.” 


A Battle of Giants 333 

“Pardon me, if I say, sir,” replied the young 
priest, “that that is the weakest and most fal- 
lacious argument I ever heard advanced. That 
reasoning supposes the totally inadmissible prin- 
ciple that there never is a valid consecration 
when, inadvertently, the priest forgets some Rubric 
that is binding under pain of mortal sin. If, for 
example, the priest used fermented bread, if the 
corporal weren’t blessed, in which case the 
chalice and paten would be outside the corporal, 
as well as the ciborium; if the chalice itself 
were n’t consecrated, there would be no sacrifice 
and no consecration. Besides, if you once com- 
mence interpreting intention in this manner, you 
should hold that if the ciborium were covered on 
the corporal, there would be no consecration — ” 

“That ’s only a venial sin,” said the chairman. 

“A priest, when celebrating,” said Father 
Irwin sweetly, “ is no more supposed to commit 
a venial than a mortal sin. Besides — ” 

“I’m afraid our time is running short,” said 
the bishop; “I’ll remember your arguments, 
which are very ingenious, Father Irwin. But, as 
the chairman says, the consensus is against you. 
Now, for the main Conference, de textibus Sacrcs 
Scriptures. ” 

“Father Duff will read his paper, my Lord, 
and then we’ll discuss it.” 

“Very good. Now, Father Duff!” 

Father Duff was another representation of the 


334 ^7 New Curate 

new dispensation, with a clear-cut, smooth-shaven 
face, large blue-black eyes, which, however, were 
not able to fulfil their duties, for, as he took out 
a large roll of manuscript from his pocket, he 
placed a gold-rimmed pince-nez to his eyes, and 
looking calmly around, he began to read in a 
slow, rhythmic voice. It was a wonderful voice, 
too, for its soft, purring, murmurous intonation 
began to have a curious effect on the brethren. 
One by one they began to be seized by its hyp- 
notic influence, and to yield to its soft, soporific 
magic, until, to my horror and disgust, they 
bowed their heads on their breasts, and calmly 
slept. Even the Master of Conference, and the 
bishop himself, gently yielded, after a severe 
struggle. “I shall have it all to myself,” I said, 
“and if I don’t profit much by its historical 
aspects, I shall at least get a few big rocks of 
words,, unusual or obsolete, to fling at my curate.” 
And so I did. Codex Alexandrinus, and Codex 
Sinaiticus, and Codex Bezae, and Codex Vaticanus 
rang through my bewildered brain. Then I have 
a vague recollection that he actually laughed at 
the idea of six literal days of creation, which 
made an old priest, out of his dreams, turn over 
to me and whisper: “He’s an infidel”; then, 
again, he ridiculed the idea of the recognized 
authorship of the Pentateuch ; spoke of Chaldean 
and Babylonian interpolations; knocked on the 
head the Davidical origin of the Psalms; made 


A Battle of Giants 335 

the Book of Daniel half-apocryphal ; introduced 
the Book of Job, as a piece of Arabian poetry, 
like the songs of some man called Hafiz ; talked 
about Johannine Gospels and Pauline Epistles; 
and, altogether, left us to think that, by some- 
thing called Ritschlian interpretations, the whole 
Bible was knocked into a cocked hat. Then he 
began to build up what he had thrown down ; 
and on he went, in his rhythmical, musical way, 
when just as he declared that ‘‘the basal docu- 
ment on which everything is founded is the 
ur-evangelium, which is the underlying cryptic 
element of the Synoptic Gospels,” — just as he 
reached that point, and was going on about 
Tatian’s “ Diatessaron,” a deep stertorous sound, 
like the trumpeting of an elephant, reverberated 
through the conference room. They all woke 
up, smiling at me, and as they did not seem 
inclined to apologize to Father Duff for their 
misbehavior, I said gravely and most angrily: — 

“ My Lord, I think the Conference should be a 
little less unconscious of the grave discourtesy 
done to one of the most able and erudite papers 
that I have ever heard here — ” 

There was a shout of irreverent laughter, in 
which, I am sorry to say, the bishop joined. At 
least, I saw his Lordship taking out a silk hand- 
kerchief and wiping his eyes. 

“ I propose now, my Lord, as an amende to the 
most cultured and distinguished young priest. 


336 My New Curate 

that that valuable paper be sent, with your Lord- 
ship’s approbation, to some ecclesiastical journal 
in Ireland or America. Its appearance in per- 
manent print may give these young men some 
idea of the contents of the document, the main 
features of which they have lost by yielding, I 
think too easily, to the seductions of ill-timed 
sleep — ” 

Here there was another yell of laughter, that 
sounded to my ears ill-placed and discourteous; 
but the chairman again interposed : — 

“Now, Father Duff, if you are not too highly 
flattered by the encomiums of Father Dan, 
who was your most attentive and admiring 
listener, I should like to ask you a few questions 
on the subject-matter of your paper.” 

“Surely,” I declared, “you are not going to 
attack such a stronghold? Besides, the time is 
up.” 

“There is a full hour yet, Father Dan,” said 
the bishop, consulting his watch; “but you won’t 
mind it, you are able to pass your time so 
agreeably. ” 

I did not grasp his Lordship’s meaning; but I 
never do try to penetrate into mysteries. What’s 
that the Scripture says? “The searcher after 
majesty will be overwhelmed with glory.” 

But the little skirmishes that had taken place 
before the paper was read were nothing to the 
artillery-duel that was now in progress. 


A Battle of Giants 337 

“With regard to the Septuagint,” said the 
chairman, “ I think you made a statement about 
the history of its compilation that will hardly 
bear a test. You are aware, of course, that 
Justin, Martyr and Apologist, declares that he 
saw, with his own eyes, the cells where the 
Seventy were interned by order, or at the request, 
of Ptolemy Philadelphus. How, then, can the 
letter of Aristeas be regarded as apocryphal ? ” 

“ Well, it does not follow that the whole letter 
is authentic merely because a clause is verified. 
Secondly, that statement imputed to Justin may 
be also apocryphal.” 

“Do you consider the names of the seventy- 
two elders also unauthentic ? ” 

“ Quite so.” 

“And altogether you would regard the Sep- 
tuagint as a rather doubtful version of the Ancient 
Law?” 

“ I ’d only accept it so far as it agrees with the 
Vulgate and the Codices.” 

“But you’re aware it was in common use 
amongst cultivated Jews years before the coming 
of our Lord ; in fact, it may be regarded as a 
providential means of preparing the way of the 
Lord for the Jews of Greece and Alexandria.” 

“ That proves nothing. ” 

“It proves this. It is well known that the 
Hebrews were scrupulously exact about every 
title and letter, and even vowel-point — ” 


22 


338 My New Curate 

"I beg your pardon, sir; the Hebrews before 
Christ didn’t use vowel-points.” 

“That ’s a strong assertion,” said the chairman, 
reddening. 

“It is true. I appeal to his Lordship,” said 
Father Duff. 

“Well,” said the bishop diplomatically, “that 
appears to be the received opinion ; but the whole 
thing is wrapped up in the mists and the twilight 
of history.” 

I thought that admirable. 

“To pass away from that subject,” said the 
chairman, now somewhat nervous and alarmed, “ I 
think you made statements, or rather laid down a 
principle, that Catholics can hardly accept.” 

Father Duff waited. 

“ It was to the effect that in studying the history 
of the Bible, as well as in interpreting its mean- 
ing, we must take into account the discoveries 
and the deductions of modern science.” 

“Quite so.” 

“In other words, we are to adopt the conclu- 
sions of German rationalistic schools, and set 
aside completely the supernatural elements in the 
Bible.” 

“Pardon me; I hardly think that deduction 
quite legitimate. There are two schools of 
thought in the Church on this question : the one 
maintains with Dr. Kaulen, of Bonn, that the 
conclusions of modern criticism are so certainly 


A Battle of Giants 339 

erroneous that young students should not notice 
them at all. The other holds that we must read 
our Bibles by the light of modern interpretation. 
The official Encyclical of the present Pope Leo 
XIII. (‘ Providentissimus Deus ’) should have 
closed the controversy; but men are tenacious of 
their opinions, and both schools in Germany utilize 
the Encyclical for their own ends. Professor 
Aurelian Schopfer, of the Brixen, at once pub- 
lished his book (‘ Bible and Science’), in which 
he maintained that the teaching of the natural 
sciences may be used by Catholics not only to 
confirm Biblical statements, but to interpret 
them. As I have said, he was opposed by 
Kaulen, of Bonn. There was a second duel 
between Schantz of Tubingen, and Scholz of 
Wurzburg. The former insisted that no new 
principle of Biblical interpretation has been 
introduced by the Encyclical; the latter that the 
principle of scientific investigation was recog- 
nized, and was to be applied. Now, a Protestant, 
Konig of Rostock, was interested in this Catholic 
controversy, and collected seventy reviews of 
Schopfer’ s work by leading scholars in Germany, 
Austria, France, Ireland, America; and he found 
that five sixths endorse the position of the 
author — ” 

“ You might add, Father Duff,” said my curate, 
who was an interested listener to the whole 
argument, and who had been hitherto silent, 


340 My New Curate 

“ that these reviewers found fault with Schopfer 
for ignoring the consensus patrum , and for de- 
cidedly naturalistic tendencies.” 

The whole Conference woke up at this new 
interlude. The chairman looked grateful; the 
bishop leaned forward. 

“ But the * Civilta Cattolica, ’ ” said Father Duff, 
“which we may regard as official, says, in its 
review of the same book : * Biblical history cannot 
be any longer stated except in agreement with 
the true and correct teaching of the Bible and the 
reasonable conclusions of the natural sciences. ’ ” 

“Quite so,” said Father Letheby, “that applies 
to the certain discoveries of geology and astron- 
omy. But surely you don’t maintain that phi- 
lology, which only affects us just now, is an exact 
science.” 

“Just as exact as the other sciences you have 
mentioned.” 

“That is, as exact as a mathematical demon- 
stration? ” 

“ Quite so.” 

“Come now,” said my curate, like a fellow 
that was sure of himself, “that ’s going too far.” 

“Not at all,” said Father Duff; “I maintain 
that the evidence of history on the one hand, and 
the external evidence of monuments on the other, 
combined with the internal evidence of Scrip- 
tural idiomatisms of time and place, are equiva- 
lent to a mathematical demonstration.” 


A Battle of Giants 341 

“ You ’ll admit, I suppose,” said Father Letheby, 
“that languages change their structures and 
meanings very often?” 

“ Certainly. ” 

“The English of Shakespeare is not ours.” 

“ Quite so.” 

“Even words have come to have exactly an- 
tithetical meanings, even in a lapse of three 
hundred years.” 

“Very good.” 

“ And it is said that, owing to accretions, the 
language we speak will be unintelligible in a 
hundred years’ time.” 

“ Possibly.” 

“ Now, would you not say that a contemporary 
of Shakespeare’s would be a better judge of his 
poetry and its allusive and natural meaning than 
ever so learned a linguist, after an interval of 
change ? ” 

“Well, I should say so. I don’t know where 
you are drifting.” 

“ What is the reason that we never heard of these 
‘internal evidences,’ these ‘historical coinci- 
dences, ’ these ‘ exclusive idioms, ’ from Origen or 
Dionysius, or from Jerome or Augustine, from 
any one of the Fathers, who held what we hold, 
and what the Church has always taught, about 
the authorship of the Sacred Books, and to whom 
Hebrew and Greek were vernacular?” 

“ But, my dear sir, there are evident interpola- 


34 2 My New Curate 

tions even in the Gospels. Do you really mean 
to tell me that that canticle of the Magnificat 
was uttered by a young Hebrew girl on Hebron, 
and was not rather the deliberate poetical concep- 
tion of the author of St. Luke’s Gospel ? ” 

I jumped from my seat; but I needn’t have 
done so. I saw by the whitening under my 
curate’s eyes, and the compression of his lips, 
and his eyes glowing like coal, that our dear 
little Queen’s honor was safe in his hands. 
Father Duff couldn’t have stumbled on a more 
unhappy example for himself. Father Letheby 
placed his elbows on the table and, leaning for- 
ward, he said in a low, tremulous voice : 

“You may be very learned, Father, and I 
believe you are; but for all the learning stored 
up in those German universities, which you so 
much admire, I would not think as you appear to 
think on this sacred subject. If anything could 
show the tendency of modern interpretations of 
the Holy Scriptures, it would be the painful and 
almost blasphemous opinion to which you have 
just given expression. It is the complete elimi- 
nation of the supernatural, the absolute denial of 
Inspiration. If the Magnificat is not an inspired 
utterance, I should like to know what is.” 

There was a painful silence for a few seconds, 
during which I could hear the ticking of my 
watch. Then the Master of Conference arose, 
and, kneeling, said the Actiones nostras . We 


A Battle of Giants 343 

were all gathering up our books and papers to 
disperse, when the Bishop said : — 

“ Gentlemen, the annual procession in honor of 
our Blessed Lady will be held in the Cathedral 
and College grounds on the evening of May the 
31st. I shall be glad to see there as many of 
you as can attend. Dinner at four; rosary and 
sermon at seven o’clock. Father Letheby, would 
you do me the favor of preaching for us on that 
occasion ? ” 

Father Letheby blushed an affirmative; and 
then the bishop, with delightful tact, turned to 
the humbled and almost effaced Father Duff, and 
said : — 

“ Father Duff, leave me that paper; I think 
I ’ll adopt the admirable suggestion of our friend, 
Father Dan.” 

Some of the young fellows, wits and wags as 
they were, circulated through the diocese the 
report that I tried to kiss the bishop. Now, 
there is not a word of truth in that — and for 
excellent reasons. First, because like Zacchaeus, 
I am short of stature ; and the bishop — God 
bless him ! — is a fine, portly man. Secondly, 
because I have an innate and congenital dread of 
that little square of purple under his Lordship’s 
chin. I ’m sure I don’t know why, but it always 
gives me the shivers. I ’m told that they are 
allowing some new class of people called “ Mon- 
signori,” and even some little canons, to assume 


344 My New Curate 

the distinctive color of the episcopate. ’T is a 
great mistake. Our Fathers in God should have 
their own peculiar colors, as they have their own 
peculiar and tremendous responsibilities. But 
I’ll tell you what I did. I kissed the bishop’s 
ring, and I think I left a deep indentation on his 
Lordship’s little finger. 

The Master of Conference detained me. 

“I’m beginning to like that young fellow of 
yours,” he said. “ He appears to have more piety 
than learning.” 

“He has both,” I replied. 

“ So he has ; so he has, indeed. What are we 
coming to ? What are we coming to, at all ? ” 

“Then I suppose,” I said, “I needn’t mind 
that bell?” 

“What bell?” 

“The bell that I was to tie around his neck.” 

“Father Dan, you have too long a memory; 
good by ! I’m glad you ’ve not that infidel, Duff, 
as curate.” 

We went home at a rapid pace, my curate and 
I, both too filled with thought to speak much. 
At last, I said, shaking up : — 

“I’m beginning to think that I, too, took forty 
winks during the reading of that paper.” 

“I think about forty minutes of winks, Father 
Dan,” he replied. “You slept steadily for forty 
minutes out of the forty-five.” 

“That's a calumnious exaggeration,” I said; 


A Battle of Giants 345 

“ don’t I remember all about Job, and Daniel, 
and the synoptic Gospels.” 

“These were a few preliminaries,” replied my 
curate. 

“But who was that undignified and ungentle- 
manly fellow that woke us all with such a snore? 
I suppose it was Delaney ? ” 

“No; it was not Delaney. He was too agi- 
tated after his rencontre with the chairman to 
fall asleep.” 

“Indeed? Perhaps it would be as well forme 
not to pursue the subject further. This will be 
a great sermon of yours. ” 

“I’m very nervous about it,” he said, shaking 
the reins. “ It is not the sermon I mind, but all 
the dislike and jealousy and rancor it will cause.” 

“You can avoid all that,” I replied. 

“ How ? ” 

“Break down hopelessly and they’ll all love 
you. That is the only road to popularity — to 
make a fool of yourself.” 

“I did that to-day,” he said. “I made a most 
determined cast-iron resolution not to open my 
lips unless I was interrogated, but I could not 
stand that perkiness and self-sufficiency of Duff, 
especially when it developed into irreverence.” 

“If you had not spoken I should have chal- 
lenged him ; and I am not sure I would have been 
so polite as you were. The thing was unpardon- 
able.” 


346 My New Curate 

We dined at Father Letheby’s. Just after 
dinner there was a timid knock at the door. He 
went out, and returned in a few minutes looking 
despondent and angry. I had heard the words 
from the hall : — 

“She must give it up, your reverence. Her 
little chest is all falling in, and she’s as white 
as a corpse.” 

“ One of the girls giving up work at the 
machines,” he replied. “She’s suffering from 
chest trouble, it appears, from bending over this 
work. ” 

“ Who is she ? ” I queried. 

“Minnie Carmody — that tall girl who sat near 
the door.” 

“H’m,” I said. “I think it would be nearer 
the truth to say that Minnie Carmody’s delicacy 
comes from the vinegar bottle and white paper. 
She was ashamed of her red face, and this is the 
latest recommendation of the novelette to banish 
roses, and leave the lilies of anaemia and con- 
sumption.” 

“It augurs badly, however,” he replied. “The 
factory is not open quite a month yet. ” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


THE SERMON 

I AM quite sure that sermon cost me more anxiety 
and trouble than Father Letheby suffered. I was 
deeply interested in its success, of course. But 
that was not the point. I am probably the fee- 
blest and worst preacher in my diocese. This 
gives me the indefeasible right to dogmatize about 
preaching. Just as failures in literary attempts 
are the credentials of a great critic, so writers on 
sermons can claim the high authority and ambas- 
sadorship to dictate to the world, on the grounds 
that they are incapable of producing even a cat- 
echetical discourse. But they fall back upon that 
universal and indisputable privilege of our race — • 
the belief in their own infallibility. It often sur- 
prised me that the definition of Papal Infallibility, 
which concentrated in the Vicegerent of the Most 
High the reputed privilege of our race, did not 
create a greater outcry. It was the final onslaught 
of the Holy Spirit on the unspeakable vanity of 
the race. It was the death-blow to private judg- 
ment. At least, it ought to have been. But, alas ! 
human vanity and presumption are eternal and 
indestructible. From the corner-boy here at my 


348 My New Curate 

window, who asks indignantly, “ Why the deuce 
did not Gladstone push his Bill through the House 
of Lords, and then force the Commons to accept 
it?” to the flushed statesman, whose dream is 
Imperialism ; from the little manikin critic, who 
swells out his chest, and demands summary ven- 
geance on that idiot of an author who has had the 
daring presumption to write a book on the Greek 
accent, or binary stars, up to the Jupiter Tonans 
of the world-wide circulating journal, which dic- 
tates to the universe, it is all the same. Each 
from his own little pedestal — it may be the shuf- 
fling stilts of three feet high, or it may be the lofty 
security of the Vendome column — shrieks out 
his little opinion, and demands the silence or 
assent of the universe. Would that our modern 
Stylites, like to those of old, might, from their 
eminences, preach their own nothingness ! Would 
that, like the Muezzins of Islam, they might climb 
the minarets of publicity and fame, only to call 
the world to praise and prayer ! 

But I, sharing the weaknesses, and, therefore, 
the privileges of a common humanity, claim the 
right to the luxury of preaching, which comes 
nearest to that of criticising, and is only in the 
third degree of inferiority from that supreme 
pleasure that is involved in I told you so. 

And so, here by the western seas, where the 
homeless Atlantic finds a home, do I, a simple, 
rural priest, venture to homilize and philosophize 


The Sermon 34.9 

on that great human gift of talk. Imagine me, 
then, on one of those soft May evenings, after our 
devotions in my little chapel, and with the chil- 
dren’s hymns ringing in my ears, and having 
taken one pinch of snuff, and with another poised 
in my fingers, philosophizing thus : — 

“I think — that is, I am sure — that the worst 
advices I ever heard given in my life were these : — 

“ On Preaching. — Try to be simple ; and never aim at 
eloquence. 

“ On Meditation. — Keep your fingers in your Brevi- 
ary, and think over the lessons of the Second Nocturn. 

“ And they are evil counsels, not per se, but 
per accidens ; and for precisely similar reasons. 
They took no account of the tendency of human 
nature to relax and seek its ease. When the 
gray-haired counsellor said, ‘ Be simple,’ he said, 
* Be bald and vulgar.’ For the young men who 
listened aimed at simplicity, and therefore natur- 
ally argued, the simpler the better; in fact, the 
conversational style is best of all. Where, then, 
the need for elaborate preparation? We shall 
only vex and confuse the people, consequently 
preparation is superfluous. We know the results. 

‘ A few words ’ on the schools ; an obiter dictum 
on the stations ; a good, energetic, Demosthenic 
philippic against some scandal. But instruction, 
— oh, no! edification, — oh, no! That means 
preparation ; and if we prepare, we talk over the 


350 My New Curate 

people’s heads, and we are ‘ sounding brasses and 
tinkling cymbals.’ ” 

“ But surely, sir, you wouldn’t advise young men 
to study the eloquence of Massillon, or Bourda- 
loue, or Lacordaire? That would be talking over 
their heads with a vengeance.” 

“Do you think so?” I said. “Now, listen, 
young man. Which is, you or I, the elder? I 
am. All right. Now, my experience is that it is 
not the language, however eloquent, the people 
fail to follow, but the ideas, and they fail to follow 
the ideas because they are ill-instructed in their 
religion. Of course, I ’m involved in the censure 
myself as well as others. But I proved this satis- 
factorily to myself long ago. We were in the 
habit of ‘ reading a book ’ at the Lenten exercises 
in the last town wherein I officiated as curate. 
Now, the people hate that above all things else. 
They ’d rather hear one word from a stuttering 
idiot than the highest ascetical teaching out of a 
book. Nevertheless, we tried it; and we tried the 
simplest and easiest books we could find. No 
use. They could n’t follow one paragraph with 
intelligence. One evening I read for them — it 
was in Passion week — the last discourse of our 
Lord to His disciples — words that I could never 
read without breaking down. I assure you, they 
failed to grasp the meaning, not to speak of the 
pathos and divine beauty, of those awful words. 
They told me so.” 


The Sermon 351 

“ Do you mean then to conclude that we, young 
priests, should go in for high, flowery diction, 
long phrases, etc. ? I could hardly imagine any 
man, least of all you, sir, holding such a theory ! ” 

“You’re running away with the question, my 
boy. The eloquence that I recommend is the 
eloquence of fine taste, which positively excludes 
all the ornaments which you speak of.” 

“ By Jove, we don’t know where to turn,” said 
my curate. “ I never ventured, during my late 
English experience of seven years, to stand in the 
pulpit and address the congregation, without writ- 
ing every word and committing it to memory. I 
dare n’t do otherwise ; for if I made a mistake, 
fifty chances to one, some Methodist or Socinian 
would call at the presbytery next morning and 
challenge me to deadly combat.” 

“ And why should you give up that excellent 
habit here,” I said, “ and go on the dabitur vobis ? ” 

“ Because you may conjecture easily that I 
shall be talking over their heads.” 

“ Better talk over their heads, young man, than 
under their feet. And under their feet, believe 
me, metaphorically, they trample the priest who 
does not uphold the dignity of his sacred office of 
preacher. ‘ Come down to the level of the peo- 
ple ! ’ May God forgive the fools who utter this 
banality ! Instead of saying to the people : ‘ Come 
up to the level of your priests, and be educated 
and refined,’ they say : ‘ Go down to the people’s 


352 My New Curate 

level.’ As if any priest ever went down in lan- 
guage or habit to the people’s level who did n’t 
go considerably below it.” 

u ’Pon my word, Father Dan,” said Father Leth- 
eby, “ if I did not know you so well, I would 
think you were talking nonsense.” 

“ Hear a little more nonsense ! ” I said. “ I say 
now that our people like fine, sonorous language 
from the altar ; and they comprehend it ! Try 
them next Sunday with a passage from Lacor- 
daire, and you ’ll see what I mean. Try that noble 
passage, ‘ II y a un homme, dont l’amour garde la 
tombe,’ — ‘ There is a man whose tomb is guarded 
by love,’ — and see if they ’ll understand you. 
Why, my dear fellow, fifty years ago, when the 
people were a classical people, taught only their 
Homers and Virgils by the side of the ditch, they 
could roll out passage after passage from their 
favorite preachers, and enjoy them and appreciate 
them. It was only a few days since, I was speak- 
ing on the subject to a dear old friend, who, after 
the lapse of fifty years, quoted a passage on Hell 
that he had heard almost as a child : ‘ If we 
allowed our imagination, my dear brethren, to 
dwell persistently on this terrific truth, Reason 
itself would totter on its throne.’ But the people 
of to-day cannot quote, because they cannot get 
the opportunity. The race of preachers is dead.” 

I shut him up, and gave myself time to breathe. 

“Would you say then, sir,” he said meekly. 


The Sermon 353 

“that I should continue my habit of writing out 
verbatim my sermons, and then commit them to 
memory? ” 

“ Certainly not,” I replied, “unless you find it 
necessary to maintain the high level on which all 
our utterances should be placed. And if now, 
after the practice of seven years, you cannot com- 
mand your language, you never will. But here is 
my advice to you, and, as you are a friend, I 
shall charge nothing for it, but I make it copy- 
right throughout the universe: — 

I. Study. 

II. Preach not Yourself, but God. 

III. Live up to your Preaching. 

That's all.” 

He appeared thoughtful and dissatisfied. I had 
to explain. 

“ A well-filled mind never wants words. Read, 
and read, and read ; but read, above all, the Holy 
Scriptures. Never put down your Breviary, but 
to take up your Bible. Saturate yourself with its 
words and its spirit. All the best things that are 
to be found in modern literature are simple para- 
phrases of Holy Writ. And interweave all your 
sentences with the Sacred Text. All the tempo- 
ral prosperity of England comes from the use of 
the Bible, all its spiritual raggedness and naked- 
ness from its misuse. They made it a fetish. 
And their commentators are proving, or rather 
23 


354 My New Curate 

trying to prove, that it is only a little wax and 
pasteboard — only the literature of an obscure and 
subjugated race. But, even as literature, it has 
had a tremendous influence in forming the mas- 
culinity of the British character. They are now 
giving up the Bible and the Sabbath. And the 
debacle is at hand. But I often thought we would 
have a more robust piety, a tenderer devotion, a 
deeper reverence, if we used the Sacred Scrip- 
tures more freely. And our people love the Sa- 
cred Writing. A text will hang around them, like 
a perfume, when all the rest of our preaching is 
forgotten. Why, look at myself. Forty years ago 
I attended a certain Retreat. I forget the very 
name of the Jesuit who conducted it; but I re- 
member his texts, and they were well chosen : — 

‘ I have seen a terrible thing upon the earth : a slave 
upon horseback, and kings walking in the mire.’ 

‘You have taken my gold and silver, and made idols 
unto yourselves.’ 

‘ If I am a father, where is my honor? ’ 

‘ If I am a master, where is my fear ? ’ 

I have made hundreds of meditations on these 
words, and preached them many a time. Then, 
again, our people are naturally poetic ; the poetry 
has been crushed out of their natures by modern 
education. Yet they relish a fine line or expres- 
sion. And again, their own language is full of 
aphorisms, bitter and stinging enough, we know, 
but sometimes exquisite as befits a nation whose 


The Sermon 355 

forefathers lived in tents of skins. Now give them 
a few of the thousand proverbs of Solomon, and 
they will chew them as a cow chews the cud. 
But I should go on with this subject forever.” 

“ But what about the use of sarcasm, sir? Your 
allusions to the Gaelic sarcasms reminded me of 
it. I often heard people say that our congrega- 
tions dread nothing so much as sarcasm.” 

“ I ’m glad you reminded me of it. I can speak 
on the matter like a professor, for I was past- 
master in the science. I had a bitter tongue. 
How deeply I regret it, God only knows. I have 
often made an awful fool of myself at conferences, 
at public meetings, etc. ; I have often done silly 
and puerile things, what the French call betises ; 
I think of them without shame. But the sharp, 
acrid things I have said, and the few harsh things 
I have done, fill me with confusion. There ’s the 
benefit of a diary. It is an examination of con- 
science. I remember once at a station, a rather 
mean fellow flung a florin on a heap of silver be- 
fore me. He should have paid a half-crown. I 
called his attention to it. He denied it. It was 
the second or third time he had tried that little 
game. I thought the time had come for a gentle 
remonstrance. I said nothing till the people were 
about to disperse. Then I said I had a story to 
tell them. It was about three mean men. One 
was an employer of labor in America, who was 
so hard on his men that when his factory blew 


356 My New Curate 

up he docked them, or rather their widows, of the 
time they spent foolishly up in the sky. There 
was a titter. The second was a fellow here at 
home, who stole the pennies out of the eyes of a 
corpse. There was a roar. ‘ The third, the mean- 
est of the three, I leave yourselves to discover. 
He is n’t far away.’ The bolt went home, and he 
and his family suffered. He never went to a fair 
or market that it was not thrown in his face ; and 
even his little children in the schools had to bear 
his shame. I never think of it without a blush. 
Who wrote these lines? — 

‘He who only rules by terror 
Doeth grievous wrong ; 

Deep as Hell I count his error, 

Listen to my song.’ ” 

“ I ’m not sure,” said Father Letheby. “ I think 
it was Tennyson.” 

“ Thank God, the people love us. But for 
that, I should despair of our Irish faith in the 
near future.” 

“You said, ‘Preach not yourself, but God’?” 

“Are n’t you tired?” 

“ No ! ” he said ; “ I think you are speaking 
wisely.” Which was a direct implication that this 
was not in my usual style. But never mind ! 

“ Let me carry out my own suggestion,” I 
said. “Take down that Bible. Now, turn to the 
prophecy of Ezekiel — that lurid, thunder-and- 
lightning, seismic, magnetic sermon. Now find 


The Sermon 357 

the thirty-third chapter. Now find the thirtieth 
verse and read.” 

He read : — 

“ And thou, son of man : the children of thy people, 
that talk of thee by the walls and in the doors of the 
houses, and speak, one to another, each man to his 
neighbor, saying : Come and let us hear what is the 
word that cometh forth from the Lord. And they come 
to thee, as if a people were coming in, and my people sit 
before thee ; and hear thy words, and do them not ; for 
they turn them into a song of their mouth, and their heart 
goeth after their covetousness. And thou art to them 
as a musical song that is sung with a sweet and agree- 
able voice ; and they hear thy words and do them not.” 

“Very good. Now, there is the highest ambi- 
tion of many a preacher : ‘to be spoken of by 
the walls, and in the doors of the houses/ And, 
when judgment came, the people did not know 
there was a prophet amongst them.” 

“ It is n’t easy to get rid of ourselves in the 
pulpit,” said Father Letheby. 

“No, my dear boy, it is not. Nowhere does 
the iyco cling more closely to us. We are never 
so sensitive as when we are on ceremonies, never 
so vain as in the pulpit. Hence the barrenness 
of our ministry. The mighty waters are poured 
upon the land, to wither, not to fertilize.” 

“ You said, thirdly, ‘ Live up to your preaching/ 
That ’s not easy, either.” 

“ No; the most difficult of the three. Yet here, 


358 My New Curate 

too, your words are barren, if they come not sup- 
ported by the example of your life. A simple 
homily from a holy man, even though it were 
halting, lame, and ungrammatical, will carry more 
weight than the most learned and eloquent dis- 
course preached by a worldly priest. I know 
nothing more significant in all human history than 
what is recorded in the Life of Pere Lacordaire. 
In the very zenith of his fame, his pulpit in Toulouse 
was deserted, whilst the white trains of France 
were bringing tens of thousands of professional 
men, barristers, statesmen, officers, professors, to 
a wretched village church only a few miles away. 
What was the loadstone? A poor country parish 
priest, informed, illiterate, uncouth, — but a saint. 
And I know nothing more beautiful or touching in 
all human history than the spectacle of the great 
and inspired Dominican, coming to that village 
chapel, and kneeling for the blessing of M. Vianney, 
and listening, like a child, to the evening catecheti- 
cal lecture, delivered in a weak voice, and probably 
with many a halt for a word, by the saint of Ars.” 

Here I could proceed no further. These epi- 
sodes in the lives of our holy ones fill me up to the 
throat, for my heart swells for their beauty. And 
I am a soft old fool. I can never read that office of 
St. Agatha or St. Agnes without blubbering ; and 
St. Perpetua, with her little babe, kills me outright. 

We had a great debate, however, the following 
evening about the subject-matter of the sermon. 


The Sermon 359 

He wanted to preach on the Magnificat. I put 
down my foot there, and said, No ! 

“ That poor Duff will be there ; and you ’ll be 
like the victor rooster crowing over a fallen 
antagonist.” 

“ But Duff and I are the best friends in the 
world.” 

44 No matter. I suppose he has nerves and blood, 
like the rest of us. Try something else ! ” 

41 Well, what about the Ave Maria , or Tu gloria 
Jerusalem, tu Icetitia Israel, etc.? ” 

“ The very thing.” 

“ Or, the place of the Blessed Virgin in Scrip- 
ture? ” 

“ You ’ve hit the nail on the head. That ’s it ! ” 

44 Well, now,” said he, taking out a note-book, 
44 how long shall it be? ” 

44 Exactly forty-five minutes.” 

44 And I must write every word? ” 

44 Every word ! ” 

44 How many pages will that make? ” 

44 Twenty pages — ordinary copy-book. The 
first fifteen will be expository ; the last five will be 
the peroration, into which you must throw all the 
pathos , love, fire, and enthusiasm of which you 
are capable.” ,f> 

44 All right. Many thanks, Father Dan. But I 
shall be very nervous.” 

44 Never mind. That will wear off.” 

I said to myself, you have heavier troubles in 


360 My New Curate 

store; but why should I anticipate? The worst 
troubles are those that never arise. And where ’s 
the use of preaching to a man with the toothache 
about the perils of typhoid fever? 

I went down to see my little saint. 

She was “ happy, happy, oh ! so happy ! But, 
Daddy Dan, I fear ’t won’t last long! ” 

“ You are not going to heaven so soon, and 
leaving us all desolate, are you? ” 

“ No, Daddy Dan. But Mr. Ormsby, who thinks 
that I have made him a Catholic, says he will bring 
down a great, great doctor from Dublin to cure me. 
And I don’t want to be cured at all.” 

“ If it were God’s Holy Will, dear, we should be 
all glad. But I fear that God alone can cure the 
hurt He has made.” 

“ Oh, thank you ! thank you ! Daddy Dan. 
You have always the kind word. And sure you 
know more than all the doctors. And sure, if God 
wished me to be cured, you ’d have done it long 
ago.” 

“ I ’m not so sure of that, my child,” I said ; 
“but who is the great doctor?” 

“ He ’s a doctor that was in the navy — like my 
poor father — and he has seen a lot of queer 
diseases in India, and got a lot of cures.” 

“ Well, we ’re bound to try every natural specific, 
my child. But if all fails, we must leave you in 
the hands of the great Physician.” 

“ That ’s what I should like best, Daddy Dan ! ” 


The Sermon 361 

“You must pray now for Father Letheby. He 
is going to preach a great sermon.” 

“ On what?” 

“ On our Blessed Lady.” 

“ I should like to be there. The children tell 
me he preaches lovely. They think he sees the 
Blessed Virgin when he is talking of her. I 
shouldn’t be surprised.” 

“ I think he ’ll have crosses, too, like you, my 
dear. No, no, I don’t mean illness; but crosses 
of his own.” 

“ I should be sorry,” she said, her eyes filling 
with tears. 

“ Of course, you want heaven all to yourself. 
Aren’t you a selfish saint?” 

“ I ’m not a saint at all, Daddy Dan ; but Father 
Letheby is, and why should he be punished?” 

“ Why, indeed ? Except to verify that line of 
Dante’s of the soul in Paradise : 

“ ‘ E dal martirio venni a questa pace.’ ” 


CHAPTER XXV 


MAY DEVOTIONS 

I OFTEN wonder if the May devotions in other 
countries are as sweet and memory-haunting and 
redolent of peace as here in holy Ireland. Indeed, 
I suppose they are ; for there are good, holy 
Catholics everywhere. But somehow the fragrance 
and beauty of these May evenings hang around us 
in Ireland as incense hangs around a dimly lighted 
church, and often cling around a soul where faith 
and holiness have been banished. I cannot boast 
too much of the picturesqueness and harmony of 
our evening prayers at Kilronan, at least until 
Father Letheby came. We had, indeed, the 
Rosary and a little weak homily. Nevertheless, 
the people loved to come and gather around the 
beautiful statue of our Mother. But when Father 
Letheby came, he threw music and sunshine 
around everything; but I believe he exhausted all 
his art in making the May devotions attractive and 
edifying. He said, indeed, that they were imper- 
fect, and would always remain imperfect, until we 
could close them with Benediction of the Most 
Blessed Sacrament ; and he urged me again and 
again to apply for permission, but, to tell the truth, 


May Devotions 363 

I was afraid. And my dear old maxim, which had 
done me good service during life — my little pill 
of all philosophy — lente! lente ! came again to 
my aid. But I ’ll tell you what we had. The 
Lady altar had all its pretentious ugliness hid 
under a mass of flowers — great flaunting peonies 
burning in the background, beautiful white Nile 
lilies in the front, bunches of yellow primroses 
between the candles, great tulips stained in flame 
colors, like the fires of Purgatory around the holy 
souls in our hamlet pictures. And hidden here 
and there, symbolical of the Lily of Israel, and fill- 
ing the whole church with their delicate perfumes, 
were nestled lilies of the valley, sweetest and hum- 
blest of all those “ most beautiful things that God 
has made and forgot to put a soul in.” Then such 
hymns and litanies ! I do not know, I am sure, 
what people feel in grand city churches, when the 
organ stops are loosed and the tide of music wells 
forth, and great voices are lifted up ; but I think, if 
the Lord would allow me, I would be satisfied to 
have my heaven one long May devotion, with the 
children singing around me and the incense of 
flowers in the air, and our dear Mother looking 
down on us ; only I should like that there were life 
in those wondrous eyes of Mother and Child, and 
I should like that that Divine Child, who holds us 
all in the palms of His little hands, would get a 
little tired sometimes of contemplating His Mother’s 
beauty and turn in pity towards us. 


364 My New Curate 

Our order of service was: Rosary, Hymn, 
Lecture, Hymn, Litany of Loretto. Did you ever 
hear: 

“ Oh, my Mother, still remember 

What the sainted Bernard hath said, — 

None hath ever, ever found thee wanting 
Who hath called upon thine aid.” 

or: 

“ Rose of the Cross ! thou mystic flower ! ” 
or Father Faber’s splendid hymn: 

“ Hark, hark, O my soul ! angelic songs are swelling.” 

Well, if you did n’t, God help you ! 

I used to read a book sometimes — sometimes 
Father Gratry’s “Month of May,” sometimes that 
good little book by the Abbe Berlioux. But when 
the people began to yawn I flung the book aside, and 
said a few simple words to the congregation. And 
I spoke out of a full heart, a very full heart, and 
the waters flowed over, and flooded all the valleys. 

The 31st of May fell on Sunday; and it was on 
this Sunday evening Father Letheby was to preach 
in the cathedral. I told the people all about it; 
and we offered the evening devotions for his 
success. Somehow I thought there was a note 
of emphasis in the “Holy Marys” that evening; 
and a little additional pathos in the children’s 
voices. Miss Campion presided at the harmonium 
that evening in place of Father Letheby. I think, 


May Devotions 365 

indeed, that the people considered that prayers for 
their young curate were a little superfluous; be- 
cause, as we came out, I was able to hear a few 
comments and predictions : — 

“ Faith, you may make your mind aisy about 
him. They never heard anything like it before, I 
promise you.” 

“ I heard they used to say over there in England 
that Father Burke himself could n’t hould a candle 
to him.” 

“ If he ’d spake a little aisier,” said a village 
critic, who had a great opinion of himself, since he 
was called upon to propose a resolution at a Land- 
League meeting, “ and rise his wice, he ’d bate 
thim all.” 

“ Did you ever hear Father Mac?” said an old 
laborer, dressed in the ancient Irish fashion, but 
old Father Time had been snipping at his gar- 
ments as he could n’t touch himself. “ That was 
the pracher ! He had n’t his aiqual in Ireland. I 
rimimber wance a Good Friday sermon he prached 
in Loughboro’. Begor, you could n’t stick a pin 
between the people, they were so packed together. 
He kem out on the althar, and you could hear a 
pin dhrop. He had a crucifix in his hand, and he 
looked sorrowful like. ‘ In the Name av the 
Father,’ sez he; thin he shtopped and looked 
round ; 4 and av the Holy Ghost,’ sez he, and he 
shtopped ag’in; * but where’s the Son?’ sez he, 
rising his wice ; and begor, ’t was like the day of 


366 My New Curate 

gineral jedgment. Thin he tore off a black veil 
that was on the crucifix, and he threw it on the 
althar, and he held up the crucifix in the air, and 
he let a screech out of him that you could hear at 
Moydore; and — ” 

“ Was that all the sarmon?” said a woman who 
was an interested listener. 

“ Was that all?” cried the narrator indignantly. 
“ It was n’t all. He prached that night two mortial 
hours, and ” — he looked around to command at- 
tention and admiration — “he never tetched a sup 
of wather the whole time , though it was under his 
hands.” 

“ Glory be to God,” said the listeners ; “ sure 
’twas wandherful. And is he dead, Jer?” 

“Dead?” cried Jer, rather contemptuously, for 
he was on the lofty heights of success ; “ did ye 
never hear it?” 

“ Wisha, how could we, and ’tis so far back? ” 

“ Some other time,” said Jer, with a little pity- 
ing contempt. 

“Ye may as well tell it now,” said an old 
woman ; “ I hard the people shpake av him long 
ago; but sure we forget everything, even God 
sometimes.” 

“ Well,” said Jer, sitting on a long, level tomb- 
stone, “ maybe ye don’t know how the divil watches 
priests when they are on a sick-call. He does, 
thin. Fram the time they laves the house till they 
returns he is on their thrack, thrying to circum- 


May Devotions 367 

went them, ontil he gets the poor sowl into his 
own dirty claws. Sometimes he makes the mare 
stumble and fall ; sometimes he pulls down a 
big branch of a three, and hits the priest across 
the face ; sometimes he hangs out a lanthern to 
lade him into a bog. All he wants is to keep him 
away, and WHAT he has wid him, and thin he 
gobbles up that poor sowl, as a fox would sling a 
chicken over his showlder, and takes him off to his 
din. Well, this night Father Mac was called out 
late. It was as dark as the caves down there by 
the say av a winter’s night. As he wint along the 
road, he began praying softly to himself, for he 
knew the divil was watching him. All of a sud- 
dint he was taken out av his saddle and pitched 
head foremost in a brake of briars. When he re- 
covered himself he looked around him and saw at 
a distance — ” 

“ I thought it was dark, Jer,” said a young 
mason, who knew that Jer was drawing the long 
bow. 

“ Av coorse it was, but could n’t ye see a light 
shining even on a dark night, my fine young man? ” 
said Jer, in a temper. 

“ Oh, was it a light? ” said the mason. 

“Ye ought to think twice before interrupting 
yer elders,” said Jer. “Well, as I was saying, 
when he come to himself, he looked around, and 
he asked, in a loud wice, ‘ Is there anny wan there 
who could sarve Mass for a priest?’ There was 


368 My New Curate 

no answer. Thin he said a second time, ‘ For the 
love av God, is there anny wan there who could 
sarve Mass for a priest ?’” 

“Begor, I always thought that was the shtory 
about the priest that forgot to say the Masses 
for the dead, and kem out av of his grave on 
Christmas night,” said an old woman. 

“ Thrue for ye, so it is,” said another. “ Many 
and many’s the time we heard it.” 

“Begor, Jer,” said a young man, “ ye’re getting 
mixed.” 

“ There ’s a hole in the ballad and the song fell 
out,” said another. 

“Jer could tell that story betther, if he had a 
couple of glasses in, I ’m thinking,” said the young 
mason, as they strolled away and left Jer sitting 
on the monument. 

“Yes; or if he had the clay in his mouth, and 
the pint on the dresser,” said his companion. 

So was this great actor hissed off the stage. It 
was a bad breakdown, and there was no mercy. 
It turned the women’s conversation back to their 
curate. 

“ May the Lord stringthen and help him in his 
endeavor, our darlin’ man,” said one. 

“Amin, thin, and may the Blessed Vargin put 
the words into his mouth that he has to shpake,” 
cried another. The children listened gravely. All 
that they could conjecture was that Father Letheby 
was engaged on a great and dangerous enterprise. 


May Devotions 369 

I never had a moment’s doubt but that their 
prayers were heard and their predictions verified, 
although when Father Letheby called the next 
day he looked depressed and gloomy enough. 

“ Well,” I said, “ a great success, of course?” 

“ I ’m afraid not,” he said moodily. 

“ You broke down badly just in the middle? ” 

“ Well, no, indeed ; there was certainly no break- 
down, but the whole thing was evidently a failure.” 

“ Let me see,” I cried. “ There are certain in- 
fallible indications of the success or failure of a 
sermon. Were there any priests present?” 

“ About twenty, I think,” he replied. “ That 
was the worst of it. You don’t mind the people 
at all.” 

“ And were n’t they very enthusiastic,” I asked, 
“when you returned to the sacristy?” 

“ No, indeed. Rather the contrary, which makes 
me think that I said something either perilous or 
ill-advised.” 

“ Humph ! Did n’t any fellow come up to you 
and knock the breath out of your body by slapping 
you on the back?” 

“ No ! ” he replied sadly. 

“ Did n’t any fellow say : Prospere procede , et 
regna ? ” 

“ No ! ” he said. “ It was just the other way.” 

“ Did n’t any fellow shake you by the hand 
even, and say: Prosit l prosit !! prosit!! /” 

“ I ’m afraid not,” he said gloomily. 

24 


370 My New Curate 

“That’s bad. Nor even, macte virtute esto, 
Titus Manlius ? ” 

“ No,” he said. “ There was no indication of 
sympathy whatsoever.” 

“ Did n’t any fellow drop into the vernacular, 
and say : ‘ Put the hand there. Sure I never 

doubted you,’ and wring your hand as if he wanted 
to dislocate it ? ” 

“ No, no, no ! There was simply dead silence.” 

“ And perhaps they looked at you over their 
shoulders, and whispered together, as they put 
their surplices into their bags, and stared at you 
as if you were a sea-monster?” 

“ Something that way, indeed,” said my poor 
curate. 

“ Did the bishop make any remark?” 

“Yes. The bishop came over and said he was 
very grateful, indeed, for that beautiful sermon. 
But that, of course, was purely conventional.” 

“ And the people? How did they take it? ” 

“ They were very quiet and attentive, indeed : 
apparently an intelligent congregation.” 

“You don’t think you were talking over their 
heads? ” 

“ No, indeed. Even the poor women who were 
gathered under the pulpit stared at me unmerci- 
fully ; and I think a few persons in front were much 
affected.” 

I waited for a few minutes to draw my deduc- 
tions. But they were logical enough. 


May Devotions 371 

“ My dear boy,” I said at length, “ from a long 
and profound experience of that wilful thing called 
human nature, allow me to tell you that every 
indication you have mentioned points to the fact 
that you have preached not only an edifying and 
useful, but a remarkable sermon — ” 

“ Oh, that ’s only your usual goodness, Father 
Dan,” he broke in. “ I ’m quite certain it was a 
failure. Look at the attitude of the priests ! ” 

“ That is just my strongest foundation,” I replied. 
“ If their enthusiasm had taken the other shapes I 
suggested, I should have despaired.” 

“Well, ’t is over, for better, for worse,” said he; 
“ I did my best for our Lady, and she won’t blame 
me if I failed.” 

“ That is sound Christian philosophy,” I replied ; 
“ leave it there. But don’t be too flushed if my 
predictions come true.” 

“ I suppose we may have a procession of the 
children on Corpus Christi?” he said abruptly. 

“ Hallo ! another innovation ! Where are you 
going to stop, I wonder?” 

“Why not have it?” he said. “It will be a 
sermon to the people ! ” 

“ Around the church, you mean,” I conjectured, 
“ and back again to the High Altar? ” 

“ No ! but through the village, and out there 
along the path that cuts the turf over the cliffs, 
and then back to the mill, where we can have 
Benediction (I’ll extemporize an altar), and down 
the main road, and to the church.” 


372 My New Curate 

“ Go on ! go on ! ” I said in a resigned manner ; 
“ perhaps you ’ll invite our pious friend, Campion, 
down to Benediction — ” 

“ He ’ll be carrying the canopy.” 

I looked at this young prestidigitateur in a be- 
wildered manner. He was not noticing me. 

“You know,” he said, “I’ll put Campion and 
Ormsby and the doctor, and the old Tertiary, 
Clohessy, under the canopy. It ’s time that these 
men should be made to understand that they are 
Catholics in reality as well as in name.” 

I was dumfounded at his audacity. 

“ I have got faculties from the bishop,” he con- 
tinued, “ to receive Ormsby, and to use the short 
form. He ’ll be a noble Catholic. He is intelli- 
gent, and deeply in earnest.” 

“ And who is this great man he is bringing from 
Dublin?” I asked. 

“Oh! the doctor? An old chum. They have 
seen some rough and smooth weather together. 
This fellow is gone mad about his profession, 
and he studies eighteen hours out of the twenty- 
four— ” 

“ He ought to be a Master of Conference,” 
I interrupted. “But won’t our own man be 
jealous? ” 

“Not at all. He says he has done his best 
for Alice; and if any one else can help her on, 
he ’ll be delighted. But he is not sanguine, nor 
am I.” 


May Devotions 373 

“ Nor I. It appears a deep-rooted affair. But 
what a visitation — God’s angel, cloaked from 
head to foot in blackness, and with a flaming 
sword.” 

We were both silent, thinking of many things. 

“Then the procession will be all right, sir? ” he 
said at last, waking up. 

“ I hope so,” I said resignedly. “ Everything 
else that you have touched you have adorned. 
This will follow suit.” 

“ Thank you, sir,” he said. “ It will be a glori- 
ous day for the children.” 

“ By the way,” I said, as he was going, “ was 
Duff* at the sermon?” 

“ He was, poor fellow; and I am afraid he got a 
wigging from the bishop. At least they were walk- 
ing up and down there near the sacristy for at 
least half an hour before dinner. You know Duff 
is an awfully clever fellow. He has written some 
articles in the leading English magazines, in which, 
curiously enough, he quite agrees with Professor 
Sayce, the eminent Assyriologist, who has tried to 
disprove the theories about the Pentateuch origi- 
nated by Graf and Wellhausen — ” 

“ My dear fellow, this is not a conference. Spare 
my old nerves all that nonsense. The Bible is 
God’s own Word — that is enough for me. But 
what about Duff? ” 

“ Well, at table, the bishop was specially and 
expressly kind to him, and drew him out about all 


374 My New Curate 

these matters, and made him shine ; and you know 
how well Duff can talk — ” 

“ I would n’t doubt the bishop,” I said ; “ he 
always does the kind and the right thing,” 

“ By the way, I forgot a moment ago to say that 
Duff met me this morning at the station, and said, I 
am sure with perfect sincerity: ‘Letheby, I must 
congratulate you. You taught me a sharp lesson 
the other day ; you taught me a gentler lesson last 
evening. Pray for me that I may keep farther 
away from human will-o’-the-wisps, and nearer the 
Eternal Light than I have been.’ I shook his hand 
warmly. Sedes sapientice , ora pro nobis.” 

“ Amen ! ” I said humbly. 

“ I ’ve asked him over to dine on the day our 
fishing-boat will be launched,” said P'ather Letheby, 
after a pause. “ Some of the brethren are com- 
ing; and you’ll come, sir? Duff is very anxious 
to meet you.” 

“ Of course,” I replied. “ I never refuse so 
delightful an invitation. But why should Duff be 
anxious to meet me?” 

“ I really don’t know, except that you are, as you 
know yourself, sir, a celebrity. He thinks a great 
deal of you.” 

“ Probably a great deal more than I am disposed 
to think of myself. Did he say so ? ” 

“ Oh, dear, yes ! He said : ‘ I must make the 
acquaintance of that pastor of yours, Letheby, he ’s 
an immortal genius ! ’ ” 


May Devotions 375 

“ An immortal genius ! Well, you must know, 
my innocent young man, that that expression is sus- 
ceptible of a double interpretation — it may mean 
an immortal fame like William Shakespeare’s, 
or an immortal fame like Jack Falstaff’s; it may 
mean a Cervantes, or a Don Quixote, a fool who 
has eclipsed the name of his Creator. But, as I 
am charitably inclined, I shall give your learned 
friend the benefit of the doubt, and meet him as 
one of my many admirers, rather than as one of 
my few critics. Perhaps he may change his 
opinion of me, for better, for worse, on a closer 
acquaintance.” 

“ I ’m quite sure, sir, that there will be a mutual 
appreciation. That’s arranged, then — the pro- 
cession on Corpus Christi, and dinner the day of 
our launch.” 


CHAPTER XXVI 


AT THE ZENITH 

For one reason or another, the great events to 
which our little history is tending were deferred 
again and again, until at last the Monday within 
the Octave of Corpus Christi was chosen for the 
marriage of Bittra Campion and the launch of the 
great fishing-boat, that was to bring untold wealth 
to Kilronan. Meanwhile our faculties were not 
permitted to rust, for we had a glorious procession 
on the great Fete-Dieu , organized, of course, and 
carried on to complete success by the zeal and in- 
ventive piety of my young curate. My own timid- 
ity, and dread of offending Protestant susceptibili- 
ties — a timidity, I suppose, inherited from the 
penal days — would have limited that procession 
to the narrow confines of the chapel yard ; but the 
larger and more trusting faith of Father Letheby 
leaped over such restrictions, and the procession 
wound through the little village, down to the 
sheer cliffs that overhang the sea, along the nar- 
row footpath that cuts the turf on the summit of 
the rocks, around the old mill, now the new factory, 
and back by the main road skirting the bog 
and meadowland, to the village church again. It 
would be quite useless to inquire how or where 


At the Zenith 377 

Father Letheby managed to get those silken ban- 
ners, and that glittering processional cross, or the 
gorgeous canopy. I, who share with the majority 
of my countrymen the national contempt for mi- 
nutiae and mere details, would have at once dog- 
matically declared the impossibility of securing 
such beautiful things in such a pre-Adamite, out-of- 
the-way village as Kilronan. But Father Letheby, 
who knows no such word as impossibility, in some 
quiet way — the legerdemain of a strong character 
— contrives to bring these unimaginable things 
out of the region of conjecture into the realms of 
fact; and lean only stare and wonder. But the 
whole thing was a great and unexampled success ; 
and, whilst my own heart was swelling under 
the influence of the sweet hymns of the children, 
and the golden radiance of June sunlight, and the 
sparkling of the sea, and the thought that I held 
the Lord and Master of all between my hands, my 
fancy would go back to that wondrous lake on 
whose waters the Lord did walk, and from whose 
shores He selected the future teachers of the world. 
The lake calm in the sunlight, the fish gleaming 
in the nets, the half-naked Apostles bending over 
the gunwales of their boats to drag in the nets, 
the stately, grave figure of our Lord, the wonder- 
ing women who gazed on Him afar off with fear 
and love — all came up before my fancy, that only 
came back to reality when I touched the shoulders 
of Reginald Ormsby and the doctor, who, with two 


378 My New Curate 

rough fishermen, belonging to the Third Order of 
St. Francis, held the gilded poles of the canopy. 
They manifested great piety and love and rever- 
ence all the way. Ormsby had brought over all 
his coast-guards except the two that were on duty 
at the station, and they formed a noble guard of 
honor around the canopy ; and it was difficult to 
say which was the more beautiful and picturesque 
— the demonstrative love of the peasant women, 
who flung up their hands in a paroxysm of devo- 
tion, whilst they murmured in the soft Gaelic : “ Ten 
thousand, thousand thanks to you, 0 white and 
ruddy Saviour /” or the calm, deep, silent tender- 
ness of these rough men, whose faces were red and 
tanned and bronzed from the action of sun and sea. 
And the little children, who were not in the pro- 
cession, peeped out shyly from beneath their 
mothers’ cloaks, and their round, wondering eyes 
rested on the white Host, who in His undying 
words had once said : “ Suffer little children to 
come unto me ! ” Let no one say that our poor 
Irish do not grasp the meaning of this central 
mystery of our faith ! It is true that their senses 
are touched by more visible things ; but whoever 
understands our people will agree with me that no 
great theologian in his study, no philosopher in his 
rostrum, no sacred nun in her choir, realizes more 
distinctly the awful meaning of that continued 
miracle of love and mercy that is enshrined on 
our altars, and named Emmanuel . 


At the Zenith 379 

But all things come around, sooner or later, in 
their destined courses, and Monday dawned, fair 
and sunny and beautiful, as befitted the events 
that were to take place. There was a light sum- 
mer haze on sea and land; and just a ripple of 
a breeze blown down as a message from the inhos- 
pitable hills. Father Letheby said early Mass at 
eight o’clock; and at half-past nine, the hour for 
the nuptial Mass, there was no standing or sitting- 
room in the little chapel. Of course, the front 
seats were reserved for the gentry, who, in spite of 
an academical dislike to Ormsby’s conversion, 
gathered to witness this Catholic marriage, as a 
rare thing in Ireland, at least amongst their own 
class. But behind them, and I should say in un- 
pleasant proximity (for the peasantry do not carry 
handkerchiefs scented with White Rose or Jockey 
Club, — only the odor of the peat and the bog- 
wood), surged a vast crowd of men and women, on 
whose lips and in whose hearts was a prayer for 
her who was entering on the momentous change 
in her sweet and tranquil life. And young Patsies 
and Willies and Jameses were locked by their legs 
around their brothers’ necks, and trying to keep 
down and economize for further use that Irish 
cheer or yell, that from Dargai to Mandalay is 
well known as the war-whoop of the race invincible. 
I presume that I was an object of curiosity myself, 
as I awaited in alb and stole the coming of the 
bridal party. Then the curiosity passed on to 


380 My New Curate 

Ormsby, who, accompanied by Dr. Armstrong, 
stood erect and stately before the altar-rails ; then, 
of course, to the bride, who, accompanied by her 
father, and followed by a bevy of fair children, 
drew down a rose-shower of benedictions from the 
enthusiastic congregation. Did it rest there ? 
Alas, no ! Bridegroom and bride, parish priest 
and curate, were blotted out of the interested 
vision of the spectators; and, concentrated with 
absorbing fascination, the hundreds of eyes rested 
on the snowy cap and the spotless streamers of Mrs. 
Darcy. It was the great event of the day — the 
culmination of civilization in Kilronan ! Wagers 
had been won and lost over it ; one or two pitched 
battles had been fought with pewter weapons at 
Mrs. Haley’s; ballads had been written on it in 
the style, but not quite in the polished lines, of 
“ Henry of Navarre ” ; and now, there it was, the 
“ white plume ” of victory, the cynosure of hun- 
dreds of wondering eyes. I dare say the “ upper 
ten ” did not mind it ; they were used to such things ; 
but everything else paled into insignificance to the 
critical and censorious audience behind them. 

“ Did n’t I tell you she ’d do it? ” 

“ Begor, you did. I suppose I must stand the 
thrate.” 

“ Father Letheby cud do anything whin he cud 
do that.” 

“ Begor, I suppose she ’ll be thinkin’ of marryin’ 
herself now, and Jem hardly cowld in the clay.” 


At the Zenith 381 

“ Yerra, look at her ! She thinks she ’s wan of 
the gintry. Oh my ! she ’s blushin’. ’T was n’t 
so long ago that you could sow praties in her 
face.” 

“ I suppose thim cost a lot of money. But, 
shure, it was the priests give ’em to her.” 

“ Wisha, thin, there ’s many a poor creature 
that would want the money more.” 

Now, all this was not only sarcastic, but calum- 
nious. The cap and streamers were Mrs. Darcy’s 
own, bought out of her hard earnings, and donned 
to-day to honor the nuptials of her idol and bene- 
factress. She knew the mighty ordeal that was 
in store for her; but she faced it, and thanked 
God she was “ not behoulden to wan of thim for 
what she put into her mout’ and upon her back.” 
And she stood there at the altar-rails, erect and 
defiant, and there was not a tremor in the hand 
that held the holy-water vase, nor in the hand 
that held the aspergill. 

But it was very embarrassing to myself. I am 
not disposed to be nervous, for I have always con- 
scientiously avoided tea and too much study, and 
I have lived in the open air, and always managed 
to secure eight hours of dreamless, honest sleep ; 
but I was “discomposed,” as some one charitably 
explained it that morning; and Mrs. Darcy’s cap 
was *the cause. I could n’t take my eyes away 
from it. There it was, dancing like a will-o’-the- 
wisp before my dazzled vision. I turned my back 


382 My New Curate 

deliberately upon it, and lo ! there it was in mini- 
ature in the convex arc of my spectacles ; and if 
I looked up, there was my grinning congregation, 
and their half-audible remarks upon this dread 
and unwonted apparition. At last I commenced : 

“ Reginald Darcy, wilt thou take Bittra Ormsby 
here present — ” 

A forcible reminder from Father Letheby 
brought me to my senses; but away they scat- 
tered again, as I heard Campion muttering some- 
thing uncomplimentary under his black mustache. 

“ Ahem ! — Reginald Ormsby, wilt thou take 
Mrs. Darcy — ” 

Here Father Letheby nudged me again, and 
looked at me suspiciously. I got a sudden and 
violent paroxysm of coughing, a remnant of an 
old bronchial attack to which I am very subject. 
But I managed to say : — 

“For the love of God, send that woman into 
the sacristy.” 

She covered her retreat nobly, made a curtsey 
to the priests, genuflected calmly, laid down the 
aspergill, and, under pretence of having been sent 
for something which these careless priests had 
forgotten, retired with honors ; and then I suppose 
had a good long cry. But poor Bittra was blush- 
ing furiously; Ormsby was calm as on the quarter- 
deck; but Dr. Armstrong was pulling at his 
mustache, as if determined to show the world that 
there was no use any more for razors or depil- 


At the Zenith 383 

atories ; and Miss Leslie had bitten right through 
her under lip, and was threatened with apoplexy. 
We got through the rest of the ceremony with 
flying colors : and the moment I said, In nomine 
Pair is, et Filii , et Spiritus Sancti , the hush of 
death fell on the congregation. Then the nuptial 
blessing was given, the choir threw all their vo- 
cal strength into the grand finale } the registers 
were signed ; Campion kissed his beloved child, 
and shook hands with Ormsby; and then com- 
menced the triumphal march. I forgot to say 
that for the glorious procession on the Thursday 
before the village was en fete. Great arcades of 
laurel were stretched from chimney to chimney, 
because there were no upper rooms in the cabins ; 
the posts and lintels of the humble doors were 
covered with foliage and flowers ; and the windows 
were decorated with all the pious images that had 
been accumulating in the cabins for generations. 
Little eikons of the Sacred Heart, gorgeous statues 
of our Lady of Lourdes, colored prints of Leo 
XIII., and crucifixes without number dappled the 
dark background of the windows, — and all the 
splendor was allowed to remain untouched during 
the oo-tave. And glad they were, poor people, to 
show their love for their young idol and mistress, 
even with the decorations of their Lord and King. 
But what a shout tore open the heavens as Bittra 
appeared, leaning on her husband’s arm ; and 
what prayers echoed round and round them, as 


384 My New Curate 

Ormsby handed Bittra into the victoria that was 
waiting ! No genteel showers of rice, no casting 
of slippers nor waving of jealous handkerchiefs 
here, but — 

“ Come down out o’ dat, you grinning monkey/’ 
and the gorgeous coachman was hauled down 
ignominiously, and a score of strong arms re- 
placed the panting horses under the bridal car- 
riage. And so it moved on, this bridal procession, 
amidst a strange epithalamium of cheering and 
blessings, whilst rough hands from time to time 
grasped the strong fingers of the smiling bride- 
groom or the tiny gloved hand of the bride. Ay, 
move down the valley of life together, you two, 
linked hand-in-hand, having said your farewells to 
the world, for you are entering on a new and 
altogether consecrated life. No wonder that the 
Church insists on the sacramental nature of this 
stupendous compact between two human souls; 
no wonder that the world, anxious to break its 
indissolubility, denies its awful sacredness; no 
wonder that the Catholic girl enters beneath the 
archway of the priest’s stole 1 with the fear of great 
joy, and that the Catholic bridegroom is unnerved 
with dread at undertaking the responsibilities of 
a little universe. 

We had a little chat over this matter, my curate 
and I, the evening before Bittra’s marriage. It 

1 In many places in Ireland the priest places the broad ends 
of the stole on the heads of the newly married couple. 


At the Zenith 385 

came around quite naturally, for we had been 
debating all kinds of possibilities as to the future ; 
and he had been inveighing, in his own tumultu- 
ous manner, against the new and sacrilegious ideas 
that are just now being preached by the modern 
apostles of free thought in novel and journal. 
We agreed in thinking that the Christian ideal of 
marriage was nowhere so happily realized as in 
Ireland, where, at least up to recent times, there 
was no lurid and volcanic company-keeping before 
marriage, and no bitter ashes of disappointment 
after; but the good mother quietly said to her 
child : “ Mary, go to confession to-morrow, and 
get out your Sunday dress. You are to be married 
on Thursday evening.” And Mary said : “ Very 
well, mother,” not even asserting a faintest right 
to know the name of her future spouse. But, 
then, by virtue of the great sacramental union, 
she stepped from the position of a child and a 
dependent into the regal position of queen and 
mistress on her own hearth. The entire authority 
of the household passed thereby into her hands, 
as she slung the keys at her girdle ; she became 
bursar and econome of the establishment; and in 
no instance was her right to rule supreme ever 
questioned by husband or child, unless drink came 
in to destroy this paradise, as the serpent fouled 
with his slime the flowers of the garden of Eden. 
Married life in Ireland has been, up to now, the 
most splendid refutation of all that the world and 

25 


386 My New Curate 

its gospel, the novel, preach about marriage, and 
the most splendid and complete justification of 
the supernaturalism of the Church’s dogmas and 
practices. But, reverting to the new phases 
in the ever-shifting emotionalism of a godless 
world, with which marriage has become a ques- 
tion of barter — a mere lot-drawing of lambs 
for the shambles — he compared the happy 
queenly life of our Irish mother with that of 
the victim of fashion, or that of uncatholic lands, 
where a poor girl passes from one state of slavery 
to another. 

“ I hope,” he said, “ that we never shall be able 
to compare Bittra, like so many other brides, to 
the sleeping child that Carafola has painted, with 
an angel holding over it a crown of thorns, and 
whom marriage, like the angel, would awake by 
pressing the thorns on her brow.” 

“ God forbid ! ” I said fervently. How little I 
dreamed of the troubles that were looming up out 
of the immediate future to shroud her marriage 
sunshine in awful gloom ! 

As the marriage- procession passed the door 
where Alice lived, Bittra gave a little timid, im- 
perious command to her admirers to stop. She 
and Ormsby alighted and passed into the cottage. 
The orange blossoms touched the crown of thorns 
on the head of the sick girl ; but, somehow, both 
felt that there was need of a sisterhood of suffer- 
ing on the one part to knit their souls together. 


At the Zenith 387 

Ormsby remained in the kitchen, talking to Mrs. 
Moylan; and from that day forward she was 
secured, at least, from all dread of dependence or 
poverty forevermore. 

At the breakfast table it was, of course, my 
privilege to propose the health of the bride and 
bridegroom, which I most gladly did ; and, let me 
say, so successfully as to bring back unwonted 
smiles to Campion’s face, who now freely forgave 
me for the gaucheries at the marriage service. 
Then the guests strolled around, looking at the 
marriage presents — the usual filigree and useless 
things that are flung at the poor bride. Bittra 
took me into a little boudoir of her own to show 
me her real presents. 

“ Father,” she said, “ who is a great artist, 
wanted me to give back all this rubbish, as he 
calls it ; but I would much rather sacrifice all that 
bijouterie outside.” And she exhibited with glis- 
tening eyes the bridal offerings of the poor fisher- 
women and country folk of Kilronan. They were 
fearfully and wonderfully made. Here was a 
magnificent three-decker battleship, complete 
from pennant to bowsprit, every rope in its place, 
and the brass muzzles of its gun protruded for 
action. Here was a pretty portrait of Bittra her- 
self, painted by a Japanese artist from a photo- 
graph, surreptitiously obtained, and which had 
been sent 15,000 miles across the ocean for an 
enlarged replica. Here were shells of all sizes 


388 My New Curate 

and fantastic forms, gathered during generations, 
from the vast museums of the deep. Here was a 
massive gold ring, with a superb ruby, picked up, 
the Lord knows how, by a young sailor in the 
East Indian Islands. Here, screaming like a fury, 
was a paroquet, gorgeous as a rainbow, but ill- 
conducted as a monkey; and here was a gauze 
shawl, so fine that Bittra hid it in her little palm, 
and whispered that it was of untold price. 

“ But, of course, I cannot keep all these treas- 
ures,” she said ; “ I shall hold them as a loan for 
a while ; and then, under one pretext or another, 
return them. It is what they indicate that I 
value.” 

“ And I think, my little child,” I said, “ that if 
you had them reduplicated until they would fill 
one wing of the British Museum, they would 
hardly be an exponent of all that these poor people 
think and feel.” 

“ It should make me very happy,” said Bittra. 

And then we passed into the yard and dairies, 
where the same benevolent worship had congre- 
gated fowl of strange and unheard-of breeds ; and 
there was a little bonham ; and above all, staring 
around, wonder-stricken and frightened, and with 
a gorgeous blue ribbon about her neck, was the 
prettiest little fawn in the world, its soft brown fur 
lifted by the warm wind and its eyes opened up in 
fear and wonder at its surroundings. Bittra pat- 
ted its head, and the pretty animal laid its wet 


Ahem ! — Reginald Orrnsby, wilt thou take Mrs. Darcy — ” (p. 382 .) 



0 


























- R .. ' ■ . - 





















At the Zenith 389 

nozzle in her open hand. Then she felt a little 
shiver, and I said : — 

“That bridal dress is too light. Go in and 
change.” But she said, looking up at me wist- 
fully: — 

“ It is not the chill of cold, but of dread, that is 
haunting me all the morning. I feel as if some 
one were walking over my grave, as the people 
say.” 

“ Nonsense ! ” I cried. “ You are unnerved, 
child ; the events of the morning have been too 
much for you.” 

Here we heard her father’s voice, shouting: 
“ Bittra ! Bittra ! where are you ? ” 

“ Here, father,” she said, as Ormsby came into 
the yard with Campion, “ showing all my treasures 
to Father Dan.” 

She linked her arm in her husband’s, and 
Campion looked from one to the other admir- 
ingly. And no wonder. They were a noble, 
handsome pair, as they stood there, and the June 
sunlight streamed and swam around them. 

“ Go in,” he said at last. “ The guests expect 
you.” 

He and I walked around the farmyard, noting, 
observing, admiring. He called my attention to 
this animal and to that, marked out all his pro- 
jected improvements, and what he would do to 
make this a model country residence for his child ; 
but I could see that he had something else to say. 


39© My New Curate 

At last he turned to me, and there was a soft haze 
in his gleaming black eyes as he tried to steady 
his voice : — 

“ I have been a hard man/* he said, “ but the 
events of this morning have quite upset me. I 
did n’t know that my child was so worshipped by 
the people, and it has touched me deeply. You 
know, brought up in the school where I [gradu- 
ated, I have never been able to shake off a feeling 
of contempt for these poor, uneducated serfs ; and 
their little cunning ways and want of manliness 
have always disgusted me. I am beginning to 
see that I have been wrong. And then I have been 
a bad Catholic. Ormsby, lately an unbeliever, has 
shown me this, not by his words, for he is a thor- 
ough gentleman, but by his quiet example. You 
know I did not care one brass pin whether he was 
Turk, Jew, or atheist, so long as he married Bittra. 
Now I see that the Church is right, and that her 
espousal would have been incomplete if she had 
not married a Catholic, and a true one. All this 
has disturbed me, and I intend to turn over a new 
leaf. I am running into years; and although I 
have, probably, thirty years of life before me, I 
must brush up as if the end were near. I am aw- 
fully sorry I was not at the rails with Bittra and 
Ormsby this morning; but we shall all be to- 
gether at Holy Communion the Sunday after they 
return from the Continent. By Jove ! there goes 
the Angelus ; and twelve is the hour to start the 
boat ! ” 


At the Zenith 391 

He took off his hat, and we said the Angelus in 
silence together. I noticed the silver gathering 
over his ears, and the black hair was visibly thin- 
ning on the top. I watched him keenly for those 
few seconds. I did not know that those musical 
strains of the midday Angelus were his death- 
knell — the ringing up of the great stage-manager, 
Death, for his volte subito — his leap through the 
ring to eternity. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


THE “ STAR OF THE SEA ” 

There was a vast crowd assembled down where 
the extemporized pier jutted into the creek, and 
where the new fishing-boat, perfect in all her 
equipments, lolled and rolled on the heaving of 
the tide. Her high mast made an arc of a circle 
in the warm June air, as the soft, round wavelets 
lifted her ; and many was the comment made on 
her by those whose eyes had never rested but on 
the tarred canvas of the coracle. 

“ She has a list to port ! ” said an old mariner, 
critically. 

“Where's yer eyes, Jur?” cried another. 
“ Don’t ye see she lanes to stabbord ? ” 

“ I ’ll bet dhrinks all round she ’s level as the 
althar,” said a third. 

“ ’T will take six min to navigate her,” cried an 
old salt, who had been around the world. 

“ ’T is aisy to get ’em for the big wages the 
priest is offering.” 

“How much?” cried a mariner from Moydore. 

“ Fifteen shillings a week, an’ a share in the 
profits.” 

“ Here ’s the capt’n and the priests. Now, 
boys, for a cheer.” 


The “Star of the Sea” 393 

And there was a cheer that made the ocean 
shiver, and fluttered the flags over the tents, and 
made even the trick-o’-the-loop men pause in 
their honest avocation, and the orange-sellers hold 
their wares suspended in midair. 

“ Is that him? ” was the cry, as Father Letheby, 
his face aglow with excitement and pride, came 
down the by-path to the pier. 

“That’s him, God bless him!” said the Kil- 
ronan men. “ ’T was a lucky day brought him 
among us. What are yere priests doing?” 

“ Divil a bit ! ” said the strangers, who felt 
themselves humiliated. 

There was a ring of merchants around Father 
Letheby, the shopkeepers over from Kilkeel and 
Loughboro’ who had subscribed to the balance of 
local aid required by the Board of Works. They 
scanned the boat critically, and shuffled, in imagi- 
nation, the boundless profits that were to accrue. 

A light breeze blew off the land, which was 
another favorable omen; and it was reported that 
the coast-guards had seen that morning the Manx 
fishing-fleet about twelve miles to the south’ard. 

There had been a slight dispute between Father 
Letheby and Campion about the naming of the 
craft, the latter demanding that she should be 
called the “ Bittra Campion of Kilronan,” and 
Father Letheby being equally determined that she 
should be called the “Star of the Sea.” Bittra 
herself settled the dispute, as, standing in the 


394 My New Curate 

prow of the boat, she flung a bottle of champagne 
on the deck, and said tremulously : “ I name her 
the ‘ Star of the Sea.’ ” 

But she grew pale, and almost fainted, as the 
heavy bottle, without a break, pirouetted down 
between sails and cordage, and seeking an open- 
ing in the gunwale of the boat flopped into six 
fathoms of sea-water. 

It was a dread omen, and all felt it. Nothing 
could have been more inauspicious or unlucky. 
But the Celtic wit and kindness came to her aid. 

“ Never mind, Miss ; ’t is n’t you, but the d d 

old hulk that ’s unlucky.” 

“ Thim bottles are made of sheet-iron ; they ’re 
so tick they don’t hould a glassful.” 

“ One big cheer, byes, for the ‘ Star of the 
Say.’” 

It was a big cheer; but somehow there was 
a faltering note somewhere; and when Father 
Letheby handed Bittra ashore and the decks were 
cleared, and the crew summoned to make her 
ready to clear off, the men held back, cowed and 
afraid. 

“ You miserable cowards,” said Father Letheby; 
“ afraid of every little accident ! I ’ll not let one 
of you now aboard ; I ’ll get a crew of men from 
Moydore ! ” 

This stung them to the quick; and when a few 
Moydore boys stood forward and volunteered, 
they were rudely flung aside by the four stalwart 


The “Star of the Sea” 395 

fishermen, and we went near having a good free 
fight to crown the morning’s proceedings. Yet 
it was easy to see that their hearts were heavy 
with superstition and fear; and it was just at this 
crisis that Campion stepped forward and offered 
himself as captain and helmsman. There was a 
genuine ringing cheer when he walked down her 
deck ; for every one knew what a splendid seaman 
he was, and it is exhilarating to see a strong man, 
self-reliant and confident, assume an authority and 
premiership by natural right, where weaklings are 
timid and irresolute. The clouds moved off from 
Father Letheby’s face only to gather more deeply 
upon poor Bittra’s. Campion saw it and came 
over to where she stood, leaning on Ormsby’s 
arm. 

“ I would be miserable up at that old castle, 
mignonne,” he said fondly, “ when you and Ormsby 
depart. It is only a few hours at sea, and it will 
give nerve to these poor fellows.” 

“ Father! father!” was all that she could say 
through her tears. What dreadful forebodings 
filled that gentle heart! 

“ Tell her it ’s all right, Ormsby ! ” Campion 
said, turning away from the tearful face. “You 
know all about the sea, and that there ’s no dan- 
ger. What a noble craft she is ! Good by, little 
woman ! You have no time to lose if you want 
to catch the mail. Good by, Ormsby! Take 
care of her ! ” 


396 My New Curate 

He choked down his emotion as he kissed his 
child, and then sprang on deck. 

“All right, lads! Ease off her head first! 
There, cast away aft ! ” 

And the pretty craft was caught up by the 
flowing tide; and with the strong hand at the 
helm, floated calmly down the deep creek until 
she reached a wider space, where the wind could 
catch her. Then they raised a white sail, half- 
mast high, and she leaned over to the pressure 
until she shot out amongst the breakers, and her 
mainsail and topsail shook out to the breeze, and 
she cut the calm sea like a plough in the furrow, 
and the waters curled and whitened and closed 
in her wake. Then, at a signal, her pennant was 
hauled to the masthead; and every eye could 
read in blue letters on a white ground “ Star of 
the Sea.” There was a tremendous cheer, and 
the fishing-boat went forward to her fate. 

Long after the crowd had dispersed, two fig- 
ures leaned on the battlements of the bridge that 
spanned the fiord higher up near the great house. 
Bittra fluttered her little handkerchief as long as 
the dark speck at the helm could be discerned. 
Then the boat, now but a tiny white feather in 
the distance, was lost in the haze ; and Bittra and 
her husband set out on their wedding journey. 

As we went home, Father Letheby showed me 
a letter received that morning from the manager 


The “Star of the Sea” 397 

of the great firm at Loughboro’, complaining that 
the work lately sent from the Kilronan factory 
was very imperfect, and, indeed, unsalable, and 
calling for the first instalment payable on the 
machines. 

“ I called the girls’ attention to this,” he said, 
“ some weeks ago, when the first complaints were 
made ; and some pouted, and some said they 
were doing too much for the wages I gave them, 
although, to encourage them, I gave them nearly 
double what I had stipulated for, and have left my- 
self without a penny to meet this first instalment.” 

“ Come,” I said, “ this won’t do. Let us go in 
and see all about this ! ” 

We went upstairs to the great room, to find it 
empty of workers. The girl who was placed in 
the position of superintendent was knitting in a 
corner, and rose as we entered. 

“Where are the girls, Kate?” he said, not 
unkindly. 

“I don’t know, your reverence. They were 
saying yesterday that this should be a holiday.” 

“They knew all this work was waiting, and 
that the manager was complaining.” 

“ They did, indeed, your reverence. I told them 
so, and one said: ‘Let them wait.’ They’re 
grumbling about the wages, though they were 
never better off in their lives before.” 

“Are they all of the same mind in that matter?” 

“ Oh, no, your reverence. Nine of the girls 


3 g 8 My New Curate 

are anxious, and are really grateful for the work ; 
but there are three doxies, who have bachelors, 
if you please, and they think themselves quite 
above the work.” 

“ I see. I think I know them. They won’t 
come here again. Can you supply their places?” 
“ Easy enough, your reverence, but — ” 

“ Never mind. I ’ll do that myself.” 

He did . He dismissed the recalcitrants promptly ; 
but when it became a question of obtaining sub- 
stitutes, it was not so easy. 

The rest of the girls went to work the following 
day; but as they passed through the village in 
the evening on the way home, they were hooted 
unmercifully, called “ staggeens,” “thraitors,” “ in- 
formers,” and, as a result, remained at home, and 
sent in their resignation to Father Letheby. Not 
that the entire body of villagers sympathized with 
this disgraceful conduct; but the powers of evil 
are more aggressive than the agents of goodness; 
and the children of darkness are wiser in their 
generation than the children of light. I suppose 
it is the same the wide world over; but, of a 
surety, in Ireland one rebel makes a thousand. 
No one thinks himself called upon to be a martyr 
or witness to the right. Of course, Father Leth- 
eby had sympathizers ; but they limited their sym- 
pathy to kindly criticism : — 

“ He was well in his way, making ladies of thim 
that ought to be diggin’ praties in the fields.” 


The “Star of the Sea” 399 

“He’s young, Maurya; when he gets oulder, 
he ’ll know betther.” 

“ Shure, they were bad enough to say he was 
puttin’ the money in his own pocket, and dem 
goin’ to their juty every month.” 

“ I hard my lady with the fringes and the curls 
and the cuffs say that the poor priest was turning 
a good pinny by it; and that he larned the thrade / 
from his father.” 

“The dirty whipster; an’ I saw the chops and 
the steaks goin’ in her door, where a fryin’-pan 
was never known to sing before.” 

“ An’ her kid gloves an’ her bonnet on Sunday. 
Begor, the Lady G is nothin’ to her.” 

“ Well, the poor priest is well rid av thim, how- 
ever. I suppose ’t will be shut up now.” 

Nevertheless, the girls never came back. The 
terror of some nameless, undefined apprehension 
hung over them. 

But I am anticipating. We dined with Father 
Letheby the evening of this eventful day. We had 
a pretty large party of priests ; for a good many had 
come over to witness the launch of the fishing-boat. 
And, Father Letheby’s star being in the ascendant, 
he had a few worshippers, unenvious, except with 
the noble emulation of imitating him. This is the 
rarest, but most glorious success that life holds 
forth to the young and the brave. Fame is but a 
breath; Honor but the paint and tinsel of the 


400 My New Curate 

stage; Wealth an intolerable burden; but the fire 
of noble rivalry struck from the souls of the young 
in the glow of enthusiasm — here is the only guer- 
don that the world can give to noble endeavor, and 
the kingly promises of success. And my brave 
curate, notwithstanding the reverses of the morn- 
ing, rose to the occasion, kindled by the sincere 
applause that rang around him for noble efforts 
that had passed into completeness and fruition; 
and I, an old man, just about to make my bow and 
exit, felt almost young again, as the contagion of 
youth touched me, and I saw their eyes straining 
afar after the magnificent possibilities of the future. 
God bless them ! for they need every square inch 
of energy and enthusiasm to meet the disappoint- 
ments and defeats, the lack of sympathy and appre- 
ciation, and the superabundance of criticism that 
await them. Dear me ! if only the young had fair 
play and the tonic of a kindly word — but no, 
kind words appear to be weighed out like gold ; 
and then comes deadly depression and heart- 
searching, and all brave courage is extinguished, 
and all noble aspirations checked, until in middle 
age we find only the dried-up, cauterized, wizened 
soul, taught by dread experience to be reticent and 
cautious, and to allow splendid opportunities to 
pass unutilized rather than risk the chances of one 
defeat. And the epitaph on these dead souls is : 
Foris pugnce y intus timores. 

This evening we let ourselves out bravely. It 


The “Star of the Sea” 401 

was a great occasion; we were all proud of the 
success of my brave young confrere ; and when 
Father Duff rose to propose his health, the table 
rang and rocked with our applause. The wester- 
ing sun threw a soft glory over the beautiful flowers 
and plants that decorated the table, and lingered 
long in the ruby flames of the glasses; the 
room was filled with a hundred odors from plant 
and shrub, and the blood of grapes that were 
crushed in the wine-presses of Languedoc and 
Dauphiny; and from afar through the open win- 
dow came the scented June air and the murmurs 
of the ever restless sea. Father Duff spoke well, 
and feelingly, and generously, and wound up a fine, 
eloquent speech with the words : — 

“ And whilst we heartily wish him many years 
of increased utility in wider and loftier spheres of 
action, and, with successful work, the laurels and 
the prizes that should follow it, may we be tempted 
to follow his noble initiative, and to learn that the 
very war against difficulties, and their conquest, is 
one of the richest prizes of labor and effort, and 
that toil and battle, even of themselves, have the 
faculty of ennobling and refining.” 

Then we all stood up, with our glasses poised, 
and sang: “ For he ’s a right good fellow.” There 
were greetings of “ Ad multos annos,” etc. ; and 
just then there came across the fields from the 
direction of the pier a low, wailing sound, so thin 
and faint that we almost doubted the testimony of 
26 


402 My New Curate 

our ears. Presently it was renewed, in increased 
volume, then died away again as the land breeze 
caught it and carried it out to sea. We looked at 
one another in surprise, and Father Letheby, some- 
what disturbed, said : — 

“ I did not know that any of our people was dead.” 

“ You expected no funeral this evening?” 

“ No ! I got no intimation that any one was to 
be buried.” 

Then he rose to respond to the toast of his 
health. He spoke well, and with a good deal of 
grateful feeling; and he seemed to appreciate 
mostly the generous congratulations of the younger 
clergy, whom he had gathered around him. But 
ever and anon, that wail for the dead broke over 
the moorland, and interrupted his glowing periods, 
until it (fame quite close to the village, and ap- 
peared to be circling round the house in dismal, 
funereal tones of agony and distress. 

“ I must bring my remarks to an abrupt con- 
clusion, gentlemen,” he said anxiously ; “ some- 
thing is seriously wrong in the village, and I must 
go and see.” 

He had not far to go. For now a tumultuous 
throng had burst into the village, as we could feel 
by the hurried tramp of feet, and the sound of 
many voices, and the awful accents of hysterical 
women raising that chant for the dead that is so 
well known in Ireland. The crowd gathered in 
thick masses around the door and we went out. 


The “Star of the Sea” 403 

“ She ’s gone, your reverence, and they are all 
drowned.” 

“ Sunk by a steamer — ” 

“ Struck her foreships — ” 

“No! abaft — ” 

“ The captain ’s drowned — * 

“Can’t you let the min spake for theirselves ? ” 
said Jem Deady, who assumed at once the office 
of Master of Ceremonies. “ Bring these fellows 
for’ard, and let them tell the priest.” 

They were brought forward, the four fishermen, 
but were not too well able to sustain conversation, 
much less to detail a thrilling narrative of events ; 
for the poor fellows had been filled up to the 
epiglottis with whiskey, and were in momentary 
peril of asphyxia. By piecing and patching their 
ejaculations together, however, it was ascertained 
that the “ Star of the Sea ” had a glorious run to 
the fishing-fleet, was welcomed cheerily by the 
Manx boats, and even more enthusiastically by 
the Cherbourg fleet; had made all arrangements 
for the sale of her fish; and then, with renewed 
vigor, was making for home. The haze that had 
hung over the sea all the morning had deepened, 
however, into a thick fog ; and one wary old 
fisherman had ventured to warn Campion that he 
had too much way on, and to keep a good look- 
out. He laughed at the notion of their meeting 
any vessel in those desolate waters, and had freed 
the helm for a moment whilst he lit a cigar, when 


404 My New Curate 

just then there was a shout, and a large steamer 
loomed out of the fog, running at right angles with 
the fishing-craft. Screams of warning came from 
the steamer, her fog-whistle was sounded, but 
Campion took it coolly. 

“ He thought it was the wather-witch, the ‘ Hal- 
cyonia,’ he had, your reverence, and she swung to 
the touch of a baby’s finger.” 

But the heavy craft was not so obedient, and 
Campion’s attempt to show his seamanship was 
disastrous. He ran right under the steamer’s nose, 
and had just almost cleared her when her prow 
struck the boat, six or eight feet from the stern, 
sheared off her helm and steering apparatus as if 
cut with a knife, and struck Campion as he fell. 
Then in a moment the boat filled and careened 
over, throwing her crew into the sea. The four 
fishermen were saved, two by clinging to the sus- 
pended anchors of the steamer, two by ropes flung 
from the deck. Campion went down. 

“ The last we saw of him was his black head 
bobbing in the wather ; and, faith, it was n’t his 
prayers he was sayin’.” 

Here, indeed, was the dread descent of the sword 
on Damocles. And all looked to Father Letheby 
to know what he would say. He received the 
dread intelligence, which foreboded ruin to himself 
and others, like a man, and merely turned to the 
expectant crowd and said : — 

“ Get these poor fellows home as soon as pos- 


The “Star of the Sea” 405 

sible. Their clothes are dripping wet, and they ’ll 
catch their death of cold.” 

True, indeed, there were little pools of water in 
the hall where the shipwrecked fishermen were 
standing. 

As we turned to go in, whilst the crowd dis- 
persed, Jem Deady took occasion to whisper: — 

“ Look here, your reverence, ’t was all dhrink.” 

Jem had kept his pledge for six weeks, and 
by virtue thereof assumed all the privileges of a 
reformer. 

It was a dread ending of the day’s business, and 
it came with crushing effect on the soul of Father 
Letheby. They were bad omens, — the revolt at 
the factory and the destruction of the boat. We 
remained for hours talking the thing over, whilst 
my thoughts ran away to the happy girl who was 
just then speeding from Kingstown on her bridal 
tour. I followed her in imagination through smoky 
England to sunny France. I saw her, leaning on 
her husband, as he led her from church to church, 
from gallery to gallery, in the mediaeval cities of 
the Continent ; I saw her cross from the Riviera into 
Italy, and I realized her enthusiasm as she passed, 
mute and wonder-stricken, from miracle to miracle 
of art and faith, in that happy home of Catholicism. 
I could think of her even kneeling at the feet of 
the Supreme Pontiff whilst she begged a special 
blessing on her father, and he, rolling with the 
tide, a dead mass in ooze and slime, and uncouth 


406 My New Curate 

monsters swimming around him in curiosity and 
fear, and his hands clutching the green and purple 
algce of the deep. 

Some one asked : — 

“ Was the boat insured? ” 

“No,” said Father Letheby. “We were but 
waiting the result of her trial trip to make that all 
right.” 

“Then the committee are responsible for the 
whole thing?” 

“ I suppose so,” said Father Letheby, gloomily. 

“I should rather think not,” said Father Duff, 
who was quietly turning over the leaves of an 
album. “ Depend upon it, the Board of Works 
never allowed her to leave her wharf without 
having her fully insured, at least for the amount 
payable by the Board ! ” 

“Do you think so?” said Father Letheby, as 
the cloud lifted a little at these words. 

“ I know it,” said Father Duff, emphatically. 

After a little time, and ever so many expres- 
sions of sympathy, the guests departed and left us 
alone. In a few minutes a knock came to the 
door, and Lizzie summoned Father Letheby. 

“You’re wanting just for a minute, sir.” 

He went out, leaving the door ajar. I heard 
Father Duff saying with emphasis : — 

“ I am deputed to tell you, Letheby, that we are 
all determined to stand by you in this affair, no 
matter what it costs. As for myself, I want to 


The “Star of the Sea” 407 

assure you that if you are good enough to trust 
me, I can see my way to tide you over the crisis.” 

“ Ten thousand thanks, Duff,” Father Letheby 
replied. “ I shall show you my friendship for you 
by demanding your assistance should I need it.” 

He came in to tell me. 

“ Never mind,” I said ; “ I heard it all, God bless 
them ! ” 

I then regretted, for the first time in my life, 
that I had not loved money ; I would have given 
a good deal for the luxury of drawing a big check 
with these brave young fellows. 

I remained till twelve o’clock, debating all possi- 
bilities, forecasting, projecting all manner of plans. 
Now and then a stifled wail came up from the vil- 
lage. We agreed that Bittra should be allowed to 
proceed on her wedding trip, and that when she 
returned we would break the dreadful news as 
gently as possible. 

“ No chance of seeing the dread accident in the 
London papers? ” 

“ None ! It cannot reach London before to- 
morrow night. They will then be in Paris.” 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


SUB NUBE 

GLORIOUS summer weather, gold on sea and land, 
but gloom of death and dole on our hearts, and 
dark forebodings of what the future has in store. 
I could hardly believe it possible that one night’s 
agony could work such a change in the appear- 
ance ; but when, next morning, I saw the face of 
Father Letheby, white and drawn, as if Sorrow 
had dragged his rack over it, and the dark circles 
under his eyes, and the mute despair of his mouth, 
I remembered all that I had ever read of the 
blanching of hair in one night, and the dread 
metamorphoses that follow in the furrows where 
Anguish has driven his plough. It appeared, 
then, that between the buoyancy of the day’s suc- 
cess, and the society of friends, and the little ex- 
citements of the evening, he had not realized the 
extent of his losses and responsibilities. But in 
the loneliness of midnight it all came back; and 
he read, in flaming letters on the dark background 
of his future, the one word : Ruin ! And it was 
not the financial and monetary bankruptcy that 
he dreaded, but the shame that follows defeat, and 
the secret exultation that many would feel at the 


Sub Nube 409 

toppling over of such airy castles and the destruc- 
tion of such ambitious hopes. He was young, 
and life had looked fair before him, holding out 
all kinds of roseate promises; and now, at one 
blow, the whole is shattered, and shame and dis- 
grace, indelible as the biting of a burning acid, 
w r as his for all the long years of life. It was no 
use to argue: ‘‘You have done nothing wrong or 
dishonorable ” ; here was defeat and financial ruin, 
and no amount of whitewashing by reason or 
argument could cover the dread consequences. 

“ Come out,” I cried, after we had talked and 
reasoned to no purpose ; “ sufficient for the day is 
the evil thereof. Let us have a walk; and the sea 
air will clear the cobwebs off our brains.” 

We strolled down by the sea, which to-day 
looked so calm and beautiful, its surface fluted 
with grooves where the sunlight reposed, and the 
colored plaits of the waves weaving themselves 
lazily until they broke into the white lace-work of 
sandy shoals. Nothing was there to show the 
pitiless capacity or the deep revenge it takes from 
time to time on its helpless conquerors. As we 
passed down by the creek, the “ Great House ” 
came into sight, all its blinds drawn and the white 
windows staring blankly at the sea. 

“ This poor child has a heavier cross before her 
than you,” I said. 

“Yes, but hers shall be healed in time. But 
who will wipe out dishonor? ” 


410 My New Curate 

“I cannot see where the dishonor comes in,” 
I replied. “You have neither robbed nor em- 
bezzled.” 

“ I am a hopeless insolvent,” he said. “ I am 
security, sole security, for those men over at Kil- 
keel, whom I promised and guaranteed to safe- 
guard. That I am bound to do on every principle 
of honor.” 

“ Well, looking at it in its worst aspect,” I re- 
plied, “insolvency is not dishonorable — ” 

“ It is the very acme of dishonor in a priest,” 
he said. 

Then I saw the inutility of reason in such a 
case. 

We dined together that evening; and just as 
the Angelus bell rang, we heard the hootings and 
derisive shouts of the villagers after the new hands 
that had been taken on at the factory. In a few 
minutes these poor girls came to the door to ex- 
plain that they could not return to work. It was 
the last straw. For a moment his anger flamed 
up in a torrent of rage against these miscreants 
whom he had saved from poverty. Then it died 
down in meek submission to what he considered 
the higher decree. 

“Never mind, girls,” he said; “tell Kate 
Ginivan to close the room and bring me the 
key.” 

That was all, except that a certain listener 
treasured up all this ingratitude in his heart; and 


Sub Nube 411 

the following Sunday at both Masses, the walls of 
Kilronan chapel echoed to a torrent of vitupera- 
tion, an avalanche of anger, sarcasm, and re- 
proach, that made the faces of the congregation 
redden with shame and whiten with fear, and made 
the ladies of the fringes and the cuffs wish to call 
unto the hills to cover them and the mountains to 
hide them. 

Nothing on earth can convince the villagers 
that the shipwreck was an accident and not pre- 
meditated. 

“ They saw us coming, and made for us. Sure 
we had a right to expect it. They wanted to 
make us drunk at the fishing-fleet ; but the cap’n 
would n’t lave ’em.” 

“ You don’t mean to say they dreaded your 
poor boat? ” 

“Dreaded? They don’t want Irishmen any- 
where. Sure, ’twas only last year, whin they 
wanted to start a steamer between Galway and 
Newfoundland — the shortest run to America — 
the captain was bribed on his first trip, and tho' 
there is n’t nothing but ninety fathoms of blue 
say-wather betune Arran and Salthill, he wint out 
of his way to find a rock, three miles out av his 
coorse, and — he found it. The Liverpool min 
settled Galway.” 

“And didn’t the cap’n cry: ‘Port! d — n you, 
port ! ’ and they turned her nose right on us.” 


412 My New Curate 

“ But they were kind when they picked you 
up?” 

“ So far as talking gibberish and pouring whiskey 
into us, they were ; but whin they landed us, one 
dirty frog-eater sang out : — 

“ It's addiyou, not O revwar ! ” 

Just a week after these events, that is, the Wed- 
nesday after my great sermon, which is now a 
respectable landmark, or datemark, at Kilronan, 
I got the first letter from Bittra. Here it is, brief 
and pitiful : — 


Hotel Bristol, Paris, Sunday. 

Rev. dear Father Dan : — Here we are in the world’s 
capital. The air is so light that you should sift the heavy 
atmosphere of Kilronan a hundred times to make it as 
soft and exhilarating. We ran through London, seeing 
enough to make one wish to escape it ; and we are boule- 
varding, opera-seeing, picture-gallery-visiting, church- 
going since. The churches are superb ; but — the 
people ! Fancy only two men at Mass at Ste. Clotilde’s, 
and these two leaned against a pillar the whole time, even 
during the Elevation. I had a terrible distraction ; I 
could n’t help saying all the time : “ If Father Dan was 
here, he ’d soon make ye kneel down ; ” and I fancied 
you standing before them, and making them kneel down 
by one look. But the women are pious. It ’s all beauti- 
ful ; but I wish I were home again ! Rex is all kindness ; 
but he ’s a little shocked at our French customs. “ Are 
these Catholics?” he says, and then is silent. How is 
dear father? I fear he ’ll be lonesome without his petite 
mignonne. Mind, you are hereby invited and com- 


Sub Nube 413 

manded to dine every evening with papa, and also 
Father Letheby. Love to St. Dolores ! Tell Mrs. 
Darcy I inquired ‘for her. What havoc she would make 
of the cobwebs here ! 

Dear Father Dan, 

Always your affectionate child, 

Bittra Ormsby. 

P. S. Remember you dine with papa every day. 
No ceremony. He likes to be treated en bon camarade ! 
Is n’t that good French? 

“You never know what a pitiful thing human 
wisdom is,” said Father Letheby, one of these 
dismal days of suspense, “ until you come to test 
it in sorrow. Now, here ’s a writer that gives me 
most intense pleasure when I have been happy; 
and I say to every sentence he writes : ‘ How 
true ! How beautiful ! What superb analysis of 
human emotion and feeling ! ’ But now, it ’s all 
words, words, words, and the oil of gladness is 
dried up from their bare and barren rhetoric. 
Listen to this : — 

“ ‘ A time will come, must come, when we shall be 
commanded by mortality not only to cease tormenting 
others, but also ourselves. A time must come, when 
man, even on earth, shall wipe away most of his tears, 
were it only from pride. Nature, indeed, draws tears out 
of the eyes, and sighs out of the breath so quickly, that 
the wise man can never wholly lay aside the garb of 
mourning from his body; but let his soul wear none. 
For if it is ever a merit to bear a small suffering with 
cheerfulness, so must the calm and patient endurance 


414 My New Curate 

of the worst be a merit, and will only differ in being a 
greater one, as the same reason, which is valid for the 
forgiveness of small injuries, is equally valid for the for- 
giveness of the greatest. . . . Then let thy spirit be 
lifted up in pride, and let it contemn the tear, and that 
for which it falls, saying : “ Thou art much too insignifi- 
cant, thou every-day life, for the inconsolableness of an 
immortal, — thou tattered, misshapen, wholesale exist- 
ence ! ” Upon this sphere, which is rounded with the 
ashes of thousands of years, amid the storms of earth, 
made up of vapors, in this lamentation of a dream, it is 
a disgrace that the sigh should only be dissipated to- 
gether with the bosom that gives it birth, and that the 
tear should not perish except with the eye from which 
it flows.’ ” 

“ It sounds sweetly and rhythmically,” I replied, 
“ but it rests on human pride, which is a poor, 
sandy foundation. I would rather one verse of 
the ‘ Imitation.’ But he seems to be a good man 
and an eloquent one.” 

“ He apologizes for the defects of philosophy,” 
said Father Letheby. “ He says : — 

“ ( We must not exact of philosophy that, with one 
stroke of the pen, it shall reverse the transformation of 
Rubens, who, with one stroke of his brush, changed a 
laughing child into a weeping one. It is enough if it 
change the full mourning of the soul into half-mourning ; 
it is enough if I can say to myself, “ I will be content 
to endure the sorrow that philosophy has left me ; with- 
out it, it would be greater, and the gnat’s bite would be 
the wasp’s sting.” ’ 


Sub Nube 415 

“ Now, this is a tremendous admission from a 
philosopher in love with his science. It shows 
that he cares for truth more than for mere 
wisdom — ” 

“ Look here, young man, something has bright- 
ened you up ; this is the first day for the fortnight 
that you have condescended to turn your thoughts 
away from the luxury of fretting.” 

“Ay, indeed,” he said, and there was a faint 
halo around his face. “ Three things — work, 
Dolores, and my weekly hour. I have trampled 
all my bitterness under the hoofs of hard work. I 
have my first chapter of ‘ The Cappadocians ’ 
ready for the printer. I tell you work is a noble 
tonic. It was the best thing Carlyle wrote, — that 
essay on Work. Then this afflicted child shames 
me. She takes her crucifixion so gloriously. And 
last, but not least, when I pass my hour before 
the Blessed Sacrament — an hour is a long time, 
Father Dan, and you think of a lot of things — 
and when all the Christian philosophy about 
shame, and defeat, and suffering, and ignominy 
comes back to me, I assure you I have been angry 
with myself, and almost loathe myself for being 
such a coward as to whimper under such a little 
trial.” 

“ Very good ! Now, that ’s common sense. 
Have you heard from the Board?” 

“ Yes ; that ’s all right. They are going to 
hold an investigation to try and make that French 


41 6 My New Curate 

steamer responsible, as I believe she is, for two 
reasons : she was going full speed in the fog ; and 
she should have observed the rule of the road, or 
of the sea, that a steamer is always bound to give 
way to a sailing vessel. And I am becoming 
thoroughly convinced now, from all that I can 
hear, that it was no accident. I should like to 
know what took that steamer away from the fleet, 
and five miles out of her ordinary course. I ’m 
sure the Board will mulct her heavily.” 

“ But has the Board jurisdiction over foreign 
vessels ten or twelve miles from shore?” 

“ That I don’t know. I wish Ormsby were 
home.” 

“ So do I, except for the tragedy we ’ll have to 
witness with that poor child.” 

“ Have you heard lately?” 

“ Not since she wrote from Paris.” 

“ Alice had a letter from Florence yesterday. 
Such a pitiful letter, all about her father. There 
was a good deal that Alice did not understand, — 
about Dante, and Savonarola, and the Certosa, — 
but she said I ’d explain it. Clearly she knows 
nothing as yet.” 

But the revelation was not long delayed, and it 
came about in this wise. I had a letter — a long 
letter — from Bittra from Rome, in which she 
wrote enthusiastically about everything, for she 
had seen all the sacred places and objects that 
make Rome so revered that even Protestants call 


Sub Nube 417 

it home and feel lonely when leaving it. And she 
had seen the Holy Father, and got blessings for 
us all, — for her own father, for Daddy Dan, for 
Dolores, for Father Letheby. “ And,” she wrote, 
“ I cannot tell you what I felt when I put on the 
black dress and mantelletta and veil, which are de 
rigueur when a lady is granted an audience with 
the Pope. I felt that this should be my costume, 
not my travelling bridal dress ; and I would have 
continued to wear it but that Rex preferred to see 
me dressed otherwise. But it is all delightful. 
The dear old ruins, the awful Coliseum, where 
Felicitas and Perpetua suffered, as you often 
told us; and here Pancratius was choked by the 
leopard ; and there were those dreadful emperors 
and praetors, and even Roman women, looking 
down at the whole horrible tragedy. I almost 
heard the howl of the wild beasts, and saw them 
spring forward, and then crouch and creep on- 
wards towards the martyrs. Some day, Rex says, 
we’ll all come here together again — you, and 
papa, and Father Letheby, — and we’ll have a 
real long holiday, and Rex will be our guide, for 
he knows everything, and he'll charge nothing 
Alas ! her presentiment about the mourning dress 
was not far from verification. They travelled home 
rapidly, up through Lombardy, merely glancing 
at Turin and Milan and the Lakes. At Milan 
they caught the Swiss mail, and passed up and 
through the mountains, emerging from the St. 

27 


4x8 My New Curate 

Gothard tunnel just as a trainful of passengers 
burst from the refreshment rooms at Goschenen 
and thronged the mail to Brindisi. Here they 
rested ; and here Bittra, anxious to hear English 
or Irish news, took up eagerly the “ Times ” of a 
month past, that lay on a side table, and, after 
a few rapid glances, read : — 

“ A sad accident occurred off the Galway coast, on 

Monday, June . The ‘Star of the Sea,’ a new 

fishing-smack, especially built for the deep-sea fisheries, 
was struck on her trial trip by a French steamer and in- 
stantly submerged. Her crew were saved, except Cap- 
tain Campion, the well-known yachtsman, who had taken 
charge of the boat for the occasion. He must have 
been struck insensible by the prow of the steamer, for 
he made no effort to save himself, but sank instantly. 
As the disaster occurred ten miles from land, there is no 
hope that his body will be recovered.” 

How she took the intelligence, her blank stare 
of horror, when Ormsby entered the dining-room, 
whilst she could only point in mute despair to the 
paper; how, the first shock over, she fell back 
upon the sublime teachings of religion for con- 
solation ; and how the one thing that concerned 
her most deeply manifested itself in her repeated 
exclamations of prayer and despair: “ His soul! 
his soul ! poor papa ! ” — all this Ormsby told 
us afterwards in detail. They hurried through 
Lucerne to Geneva, from Geneva to Paris, from 
Paris home, travelling night and day, his strong 


Sub Nube 419 

arm supporting her bravely, and he, in turn, 
strengthened in his new-born faith by the tender- 
ness of her affection and the sublimity of her 
faith. 

Of course, we knew nothing of all this whilst the 
days, the long days, of July drew drearily along 
with cloudless skies, but, oh ! such clouded hearts ! 
Suspense and uncertainty weighed heavily on us 
all. We did not know what to-morrow might 
bring. Occasionally a visitor came over through 
curiosity to see the theatre of the accident, shrug 
his shoulders, wonder at the folly of young men, 
and depart with an air of smug self-satisfaction. 
There were a few letters from the factory at 
Loughboro’, complaining and then threatening, 
and at last came a bill for £g 6 . o. o, due on the 
twelve machines, and an additional bill for .£30. o. o, 
due on material. Then I wrote, asking the pro- 
prietor to take back machines and material, and 
make due allowance for both. I received a cour- 
teous reply to the effect that this was contrary to 
all business habits and customs. There the matter 
rested, except that one last letter came, after a 
certain interval, peremptorily demanding payment 
and threatening law proceedings. 

One shamefaced, dreary deputation came to me 
from the young girls who had been employed in 
the factory. They expressed all kinds of regrets 
for what they had done, promised amendment, 
guaranteed steady work for the future, would only 


420 My New Curate 

ask half pay, would work for some weeks for 
nothing even until the debts were paid off. I 
referred them briefly to Father Letheby. 

“ They could n’t face him. If he was mad with 
them and scolded them, they could bear it and be 
glad of it; but they could n’t bear to see his white 
face and his eyes. Would I go and see him for 
them, and bring back the key to Kate Ginivan?” 

I did, and came back with a laconic No! Then 
for the first time they understood that they had 
knocked their foolish heads against adamant. 

“ There ’s nothing for us, then, but America, 
your reverence,” they said. 

“ It would be a good thing for the country if 
some of you went, whatever,” I said. 

The following Sunday a deputation appeared in 
the village, — the good merchants from Kilkeel, 
who had subscribed the balance of two hundred 
pounds for the boat. They called just as Father 
Letheby was at breakfast, immediately after his 
last Mass. He received them courteously, but 
waited for what they had to say. 

“ That was an unfortunate thing about the boat, 
your reverence,” said the spokesman. 

“ Very much so, indeed,” said Father Letheby. 

“A great misfortune, entirely,” said another, 
looking steadily at the floor. 

“We come to know, your reverence, what’s 
going to be done,” said the foreman. 


Sub Nube 421 

“Well, the matter lies thus, gentlemen,” said 
Father Letheby. “The Board of Trade is making 
careful investigations with a view to legal proceed- 
ings; and, I understand, are sanguine of success. 
They hope to make that steamer responsible for 
the entire amount.” 

“ The law is slow and uncertain,” said the fore- 
man. 

“And we understand that the crew do not even 
know the name of the steamer that ran them 
down,” said another. 

“You may be sure, gentlemen,” said Father 
Letheby, “ that the Board will leave nothing un- 
done to secure their own rights and those of the 
proprietors. They have already intimated to me 
that I shall be called upon to prosecute in case 
the Inspector of the Board of Trade finds that 
there was malice prepense or culpable negligence 
on the part of the master of the steamer, and I am 
fully prepared to meet their wishes. This means a 
prosecution, out of which, I am sanguine, we shall 
emerge victorious ; and then there will be no delay 
in discharging our obligations to you individually.” 

“ Live, horse, and you ’ll get grass,” said one of 
the deputation insolently, presuming on the quiet 
tone Father Letheby had assumed. 

“ ’T is hunting for a needle in a bundle of straw,” 
said another. 

Father Letheby flushed up, but said nothing. 
The foreman assumed a calm, magisterial air. 


422 My New Curate 

“You will remember, Reverend sir,” he said, 
“that this subscription to what some considered a 
Uropean 1 idea was not, I may say, advanced on 
our part. It was only at your repeated solicita- 
tions, Reverend sir, that we consented to advance 
this sum out of our hard earnings — ” 

“Hard enough, begor,” said a member; “’t is n’t 
by booklarnin’, but by honest labor, we got it.” 

“ If you would kindly allow me, Mr. ,” said 

the foreman, in a commiserating tone, “ perhaps I 
could explain to the Reverend gentleman our 
views in a more — in a more — in a more — 
satisfactory manner.” 

“ There ’s simply nothing to be explained,” said 
Father Letheby. “The boat is at the bottom of 
the sea ; I am responsible to you for two hundred 
pounds. That ’s all.” 

“ Pardon me, sir,” said the eloquent foreman, 
who was nettled at the idea that his oratory was 
not acceptable — and he had once proposed a 
Member for Parliament — “pardon me, that is not 
all. We — a — are accustomed to repose in our 
clergymen the highest, and indeed, I may add, the 
deepest confidence. When that good lady — I 
quite forget her name, it is so long since I read 
my classics — perhaps, sir, you could help me — 
ahem ! ” 

“ I am quite at a loss to know to what excellent 
lady you refer,” said Father Letheby. 

1 “ U topian,” I suppose, the poor man meant. 


Sub Nube 423 

“ I 'm very sorry to hear such a statement from 
the lips of a clergyman,” said the foreman, with 
much severity ; “ for the lady to whom I refer is 
the representative, and, indeed, the personification 
of Justice — ” 

“ Oh, you mean * Astraea/ ” said Father Letheby. 

“ Quite so, sir,” said the merchant, pompously. 
“When Astery left the earth she took refuge in 
the Church.” 

“ Indeed ! ” said Father Letheby, “ I was not 
aware of that interesting fact.” 

“ Well, sir,” said the merchant, nettled at this 
sarcastic coolness, “ at least we, laymen, are accus- 
tomed to think so. We have been taught to repose 
unbounded confidence in our clergy — ” 

“And how have I forfeited that confidence?” 
said Father Letheby, who began to see a certain 
deliberate insult under all this silliness. 

“ Well, you see, sir,” he continued, “ we relied 
on your word of honor, and did not demand the 
usual securities for the advance of our money. 
And now we find ourselves in a curious predica- 
ment — our money gone, and no redress.” 

“You doubt my word of honor now?” said 
Father Letheby, who, to his own seeming, had 
been a miracle of patience. 

“ We have been deceived, sir,” said the merchant, 
grandly. 

“Pray, how?” said Father Letheby. “You 
may not be aware of the meaning of your language, 


424 My New Curate 

nor of the usual amenities of civilized society, but 
you should at least know that your language 
approaches very closely to insult.” 

“We have been deceived, sir,” said the other, 
severely. 

“ Might I repeat my question, and ask you how? ” 
said Father Letheby. 

“We got the most repeated assurance, sir,” said 
the merchant, “ that this boat would be a mine of 
wealth. Instead of that, it is, if I may so speak, a 
tornado of ruin and misfortune. It lies, if I may 
use the expression, at the bottom of the briny sea.” 

“ To cut a long story short,” said another of the 
deputation, “ that boat was a swindle from begin- 
ning to end, and I know it — ” 

“ Pardon me, gentlemen,” said Father Letheby, 
rising, “ but I must now cut short the interview, 
and ask you to retire — ” 

“ Ask us to retire with our money in your 
pocket ! ” 

“ Turn us out, and we — ” 

“ Now, gentlemen, there is no use in prolonging 
this unpleasantness. Be good enough to leave my 
house. Lizzie, show these gentlemen the door.” 
He had touched the bell. 

“ We retire, sir, but we shall come again. We 
retreat, but we return. Like Marius,” — the fore- 
man was now in the street, and there was a pretty 
fair crowd around the door, — “like Marius, like 
Marius — ” 


Sub Nube 425 

“ Who the d — 1 would marry the likes of you, 
you miserable omadhaun,” said Jem Deady, who 
knew by instinct that this was a hostile expedition. 
“ Give us de word, your reverence, and we ’ll chuck 
the whole bloomin’ lot into the say. It was many 
a long day since they had a bat’, if we ’re to judge 
by dere dirty mugs.” 

This was the signal for a fierce demonstration. 
In a moment the village was in arms, men rushed 
for stones, women, hastily leaving the dinner-tables, 
gathered up every kind of village refuse ; and 
amidst the din of execration and abuse the shop- 
keepers of Kilkeel climbed on their cars and fled ; 
not, however, without taking with them specimens, 
more or less decayed, of the fauna and flora of 
Kilronan, in the shape of eggs redolent of sulphur- 
etted hydrogen, a few dead cats, and such potatoes 
and other vegetables as could be spared from the 
Sunday dinner. The people of Kilronan had, of 
course, a perfect right to annoy and worry their 
own priests, especially in the cause of Trades- 
Unionism; but the idea of a lot of well-dressed 
malcontents coming over from Kilkeel to insult 
their beloved curate was simply intolerable. 

Nevertheless, that lonely walk by the sea-cliffs 
that Sunday afternoon was about the most miser- 
able experience in Father Letheby’s life. He did 
not know whither to turn. Every taunt and insult 
of these ignorant men came back to sting him. 
What would it be if the whole thing came to pub- 


426 My New Curate 

licity in the courts, and he was made the butt of 
unjust insinuations by some unscrupulous barrister, 
or the object of the lofty, moral indignation of the 
bench ! Yet he felt bound, by every law of honor, 
to pay these men two hundred pounds. He might 
as well be asked to clear off the national debt. 
Now and again he paused in his walk, and, leaning 
on his umbrella, scrutinized the ground in anxious 
reverie ; then he lifted up his eyes to the far horizon, 
beneath whose thin and misty line boat and captain 
were sleeping. Then he went on, trying in vain to 
choke down his emotion. “ Star of the Sea ! Star 
of the Sea ! ” he muttered. Then, half uncon- 
sciously : “ Stella maris ! Stella maris ! ! Porta 
manes, et Stella maris, succurre cadenti surgere qui 
curat populo ! ” 


CHAPTER XXIX 


STIGMATA ? 

I DO not think it was personal humiliation, or the 
sense of personal shame, or dread of further 
exposure, that really agitated Father Letheby 
during these dreary days, so much as the ever- 
recurring thought that his own ignominy would 
reflect discredit on the great body to which he 
belonged. He knew how rampant and how un- 
scrupulous was the spirit of criticism in our days ; 
and with what fatal facility the weaknesses and 
misfortunes of one priest would be supposed, in 
the distorted mirrors of popular beliefs, to be 
reflected upon and besmirch the entire sacred 
profession. And it was an intolerable thought 
that, perhaps in far distant years, his example 
would be quoted as evidence of folly or something 
worse on the part of the Irish priesthood. “ When 
Letheby wasted hundreds of pounds belonging 
to the shopkeepers of Kilkeel,” or, “ Don’t you 
remember Letheby of Galway, and the boat that 
was sunk?” “ What was his bishop doing?” 
“ Oh, he compelled him to leave the diocese ! ” 
These were the phrases, coined from the brazen 
future, that were flung by a too fervid or too 


428 My New Curate 

anxious imagination at his devoted head ; and if the 
consolations of religion healed the wounds rapidly, 
there were ugly cicatrices left behind, which showed 
themselves in little patches of silver here and 
there in his hair, and the tiny fretwork of wrinkles 
in his forehead and around his mouth. Then, 
whilst speaking, he grew frequently abstracted, and 
would start and murmur : “ I beg pardon ! I did n’t 
quite catch what you were saying.” Then I 
understood that he had sleepless nights as well as 
troublous days ; and all the time I was powerless 
to help him, though I yearned to be able to do so. 
What was most aggravating was the complete 
silence of Father Duff and his contemporaries 
during these days of trial, and the contemptuous 
and uncharitable criticisms that reached me, but 
did not reach Father Letheby, from quondam 
admirers and friends. 

“ Sure, we knew well how it would all turn out ! 
These Utopian schemes generally do end in failure.” 

“ If he had only followed the beaten track, there 
was every prospect of success before him; for, 
mind you, he had a fair share of ability.” 

“ I wonder what will the bishop do? ” 

“ I dare say he ’ll withdraw faculties and ask him 
to seek a mission abroad.” 

“ Well, it is a warning to the other young fellows, 
who were tempted to follow him.” 

I was hoping that the return of Bittra and 
Ormsby would wean him away from his anxiety. 


Stigmata? 429 

But this, too, was pitiful and sad beyond words. 
I ventured to go see her the morning after their 
arrival. Ormsby came into the drawing-room first, 
and told me all particulars of their journey, and 
prepared me to see a great change in his young 
wife. Nevertheless, I was startled to see what a 
transformation a few days’ agony had caused. 
Bittra had a curious habit of holding her face 
upwards, like a child, when she spoke ; and this 
innocent, ingenuous habit, so typical of her candor 
and openness of mind, was now accentuated by the 
look of blank and utter despair that had crept over 
her. If she had wept freely, or been hysterical, it 
would have been a relief ; but no ! she appeared 
dazed, and as if stricken into stone by the magni- 
tude of her sorrow; and all the little accidents of 
home life, — the furniture, the gardens, her father’s 
room and his wardrobe, his few books, his fishing- 
rods and fowling-pieces, — all were souvenirs of 
one whose place could not be filled in her soul, 
and whose tragic end, unsupported by the minis- 
trations of religion, made the tender and reverent 
spirit of his child think of possibilities which no 
one can contemplate without a shudder. How 
different the Catholic from the non-Catholic soul ! 
What an intense realization of eternity and the 
future of its immortal spirits in the one ! How 
utterly callous and indifferent to that immortality 
is the other ! What an awful idea of God’s justice 
in the one ! What cool contempt for God’s dis- 


430 My New Curate 

pensations in the other ! And how the one realizes 
the bursting of bonds and the setting free of the 
immortal spirit unto the vast environments and 
accidents of life, whilst the other sees but dead 
clay with some dim ideas of a shadowy and prob- 
lematical eternity ! “ His soul ! his soul ! ” Here 

was the burden of Bittra’s grief. Ormsby could 
not understand it ; he was frightened and bewildered. 
I tried every word of solace, every principle of hope, 
that are our inheritance, only to realize that — 

“ Not all the preaching since Adam 
Can make Death other than Death ! ” 

Then I took her out into the yard, and placed her 
where her father had stood on the morning of her 
marriage, and where he heard “the Mass of his 
sad life ringing coldly to its end.” I repeated 
every word he said, — his remorse, his faith, his 
determination for a future, his regret that he was 
not with her on the morning of her nuptial Com- 
munion, his promise to be at Communion the 
Sunday after they returned from the Continent. 
“ And here,” I said, “ he stood when the Angelus 
rang, and, taking off his hat, reverentially said it ; 
and I counted the silver in his hair. And do you 
think, you little infidel, that our great Father has 
not numbered the hairs of his head also — ay, and 
the deep yearnings of his heart?” 

She looked relieved. 

“ Come now,” I said, “ put on your hat and let 


Stigmata? 431 

us see Dolores. She knows eternity better than 
you or I.” 

“ May I ask Rex to come with us? ” 

“ Certainly,” as I thought what a merciful dis- 
pensation it was that a new love had been im- 
planted where an old love was rudely snatched 
away. 

“And Dr. Armstrong? He journeyed down 
from Dublin with us.” 

“ Of course. He intends, I believe, to see Alice 
professionally.” 

“ Yes. He is to arrange for a consultation with 
our doctor.” 

“ Very good. We shall all go together.” 

So we did. And I had the supreme consolation 
to see these two afflicted ones mingling their tears 
in the chalice that was held to them to drink. 

“ One little word, Father Dan,” said Alice, as I 
departed. “ I don’t mind Mrs. Ormsby. There 
is to be no operation, you promised me.” 

“No, my dear child, don’t think of that. You 
will be treated with the greatest delicacy and 
tenderness.” 

The result of the investigation made next day 
was a curious one. It was quite true that her 
poor body was one huge sore ; even the palms of 
her hands and the soles of her feet were not ex- 
empt. But Dr. Armstrong made light of this. 

“ I cannot promise to make her as handsome as 
I am told she was,” he said ; “ but I can restore 


432 My New Curate 

her health by powerful tonics and good food. 
That ’s no trouble. I Ve seen worse cases at least 
partially cured. But the poor girl is paralyzed 
from the hips down, and that is beyond human 
skill. ,, 

Here was a revelation. I told Alice about it 
after the doctors had left. She only said “ Thank 
God ! ” But Dr. Armstrong’s predictions were 
verified. Slowly, very slowly, in a few weeks, 
the external symptoms of the dread disease dis- 
appeared, until the face and forehead became 
thoroughly healed, and only a red mark, which 
time would wear off, remained. And her general 
strength came back, day by day, as fresh blood 
drove out all that was tainted and unwholesome, 
and even her hair began to grow, first in fluffy 
wisps, then in strong, glossy curls, whilst a curi- 
ous, spiritual beauty seemed to animate her feat- 
ures, until she looked, to my eyes, like the little 
Alice I had worshipped as a child. In a mysteri- 
ous way, also, Alice and Bittra seemed to pass 
into each other’s souls; and as the thorns with- 
ered and fell away from each young brow and 
heart, little roses of Divine love, reflected in 
human sympathy and fellowship, seemed to 
sprout, and throw out their tender leaves, until 
the Rose of Love took the place of the red Roses 
of Pain; and Time, the Healer, threw farther 
back, day by day, the memories of trials sur- 
mounted, and anguish subdued in its bitterness to 


Stigmata? 433 

the sweetness of resignation. And when, one day 
in the late autumn, when all the leaves were red- 
dening beneath the frosts of night and the hushed, 
hidden grays of sombre days, Alice was rolled to 
the door of her cottage, and saw the old, familiar 
objects again ; and the children clustered around 
her bath-chair with all kinds of presents of lovely 
flowers and purple and golden fruits ; and as the 
poor, pale invalid stretched out her thin hands to 
the sky, and drew in long draughts of pure, sweet 
air, she trembled under the joy of her resurrec- 
tion, and seemed to doubt whether, after all, her 
close little room, and the weary bed, and her own 
dread cross, and her crucifix, were not better. 
But now she understood that this recovery of hers 
was also God’s holy will, and she bowed her head 
in thankfulness and wept tears of joy. 

And so the cross was lifted from the shoulders 
of two of my children, only to press more heavily 
on the third. As the dreary days went by, and 
no relief came to Father Letheby, his suspense 
and agitation increased. It was a matter of in- 
tense surprise that our good friends from Kilkeel 
seemed to have forgotten their grievance; and a 
still greater surprise that their foreman and self- 
constituted protagonist could deprive himself of 
the intense pleasure of writing eloquent objurga- 
tions to the priest. But not one word was heard 
from them ; and when, in the commencement of 
the autumn, Father Letheby received a letter from . 

28 


434 My New Curate 

the Board of Works, stating that the Inspector of 
the Board of Trade despaired of making the 
owners of the steamer amenable, and stated, 
moreover, that they might be able to indemnify 
eventually the local subscribers out of the receipts 
accruing from the insurance on the boat, no reply 
came to this communication which he had im- 
mediately forwarded to Kilkeel. He had one 
other letter from the solicitor of the Loughboro’ 
Factory Company, stating that law proceedings 
were about being instituted in Dublin, at the 
Superior Courts. He could only reply by regret- 
ting his inability to meet the demand, and offer- 
ing, as an instalment, to auction all his furniture 
and books, and forward the proceeds. And so 
things went on, despair deepening into despair, 
until one morning he came to me, his face white 
as a sheet, and held out to me, with tremulous 
hands, a tiny sheet, pointing with his finger to one 
particular notice. It was not much, apparently, 
but it was the verdict, final and irrevocable, of 
insolvency and bankruptcy. It was a list of judg- 
ments, marked in the Superior Courts, against 
those who are unable to meet their demands ; and 
this particular item ran thus : — 


County. 

Defendants. 

Plaintiff. 

Court. 

Date of 
Judgment. 

Amount. 

Costs. 

Galway. 

Letheby, Rev. 
Edward, 

R.C. Clergyman. 

Loughboro’ 
F actory 
Co., LYd. 

Q. B. 

Oct. 12, 187- 

,£126.0.0. 

,£8.12.6. 


Stigmata? 435 

“ This is the end,” said he, mournfully. “ I have 
written the bishop, demanding my exeat!* 

“ It is bad, very bad,” I replied. 

“ I suppose the Kilkeel gentlemen will come 
next,” he said, “ and then the bailiffs.” 

“The whole thing is melancholy,” I replied; 
“ it is one of those cases which a man requires all 
his fortitude and grace to meet.” 

“ Well, I made a complete sacrifice of myself 
this morning at Mass,” he said, gulping down his 
emotion ; “ but I did n’t anticipate this blow from 
on high. Nevertheless, I don’t for a moment re- 
gret or withdraw. What is that you quote about 
suffering : — 

* . . . aspera, sed nutrix hominum bona ’ ? 

I ’ll make arrangements now to sell off everything, 
and then for 

‘ Larger constellations burning, mellow moons, and happy 
skies, 

Breadths of tropic shade, and palms in cluster, knots of 
Paradise.’ 

But the name I leave behind me — Letheby! — 
Letheby ! It will go down from generation to 
generation — a word of warning against shame 
and defeat. Dear me ! how different the world 
looked twelve months ago ! Who would have 
foreseen this? And I was growing so fond of 
my work, and my little home, and my books, and 
my choir, and — and — the children ! ” 


436 My New Curate 

“ Alice and Bittra have been pulled out of the 
fire unscathed,” I said feebly. “Why may not 
you ? ” 

“ Ay, but they had physical knd domestic 
troubles,” he said; “but how can you get over 
disgrace ? ” 

“That, too, may be overcome,” I replied. “Is 
there not something about ‘ opprobrium homi- 
num et abjectio plebis/ in Scripture?” 

“True,” he said, “there it is. I am forever 
grasping at two remedies, or rather supports — 
work, work, work, and the Example you have 
quoted ; and sometimes they swing me up over 
the precipices and then let me down into the 
abysses. It is a regular see-saw of exultation 
and despair ! ” 

“ Let me know, when you have heard from 
the bishop,” I said ; “ somehow I believe that all 
will come right yet.” 

“No, no, Father Dan,” he said, “it is only 
your good nature which you mistake for a happy 
presentiment. Look out for a new curate.” 

The events of the afternoon, indeed, did not 
promise favorably for my forecast. About three 
o’clock, whilst Father Letheby was absent, a side- 
car drove into the village, from which two men 
alighted; and having made inquiries, proceeded 
to Father Letheby’s house, and told the bewil- 
dered and frightened Lizzie that they had come 


Stigmata? 437 

to take possession. Lizzie, like a good Irish girl, 
stormed and raged, and went for the police, and 
threatened the vengeance of the Superior Courts, 
at which they laughed and proceeded to settle 
themselves comfortably in the kitchen. Great 
fear fell, then, upon the village, and great wrath 
smouldered in many breasts; and, as surely as 
if they had lighted beacon-fires, or sent mounted 
couriers far and wide, the evil news was flashed 
into the remotest mountain nooks and down to 
the hermitages of the fishermen. And there was 
wrath, feeble and impotent, for here was the 
law, and behind the law was the omnipotence of 
England. 

What Father Letheby endured that evening can 
only be conjectured ; but I sent word to Lizzie 
that he was to come up to my house absolutely 
and remain there until the hateful visitors had 
departed. This was sooner than we anticipated. 
Meanwhile, a few rather touching and character- 
istic scenes occurred. When the exact nature of 
Father Letheby’s trouble became known, the pop- 
ular indignation against the rebellious factory girls 
became so accentuated that they had to fly from 
the parish, and they finally made their way, as 
they had promised, to America. Their chief op- 
ponents now were the very persons that had 
hooted their substitutes through the village, and 
helped to close the factory finally. And two days 
after the bailiffs had appeared, an old woman, who 


43 8 My New Curate 

had been bed-ridden for years with rheumatism, 
managed to come down into the village, having 
got a “ lift ” from a neighbor, and she crept from 
the cart to my door. Father Letheby was absent; 
he hid himself in the mountains or in the sea- 
caves these dread days, never appearing in the 
village but to celebrate his morning Mass, snatch 
a hasty breakfast, and return late at night, when 
the shadows had fallen. Well, Ellen Cassidy made 
her way with some difficulty into my little parlor, 
where, after I had recovered from my fright at 
the apparition, I ventured to address her : — 

“ Why, Nell, you don’t mean to say that this 
is yourself?” 

“ Faith it is, your reverence, my own poor 
ould bones. I just kem down from my cabin at 
Maelrone.” 

“ Well, Nell, wonders will never cease. I thought 
you would never leave that cabin until you left 
it feet foremost.” 

“ Wisha, thin, your reverence, naither did I ; 
but God give me the strinth to come down on 
this sorrowful journey.” 

“And what is it all about, Nell? Sure, you 
ought to be glad that the Lord gave you the 
use of your limbs again.” 

“ Wisha, thin, your reverence, sure, ’t is I ’m 
wishing that I was in my sroud 1 in the cowld 
clay, before I saw this sorrowful day. Me poor 
1 Shroud. 


Stigmata? 439 

gintleman ! me poor gintleman ! To think of all 
his throuble, and no wan to help him ! ” 

“You mean Father Letheby’s trouble, Nell?” 

“ Indeed, ’n’ I do, — what else? Oh ! wirra, wirra ! 
to hear that me poor gintleman was gone to the 
cowld gaol, where he is lying on the stone flure, 
and nothing but the black bread and the sour 
wather.” 

Whilst Nell was uttering this lonely threnody, 
she was dragging out of the recesses of her bosom 
what appeared to be a red rag. This she placed 
on the table, whilst I watched her with interest. 
She then commenced to unroll this mummy, tak- 
ing off layer after layer of rags, until she came 
to a crumpled piece of brown paper, all the time 
muttering her Jeremiad over her poor priest. 
Well, all things come to an end; and so did 
the evolutions of that singular purse. This last 
wrapper was unfolded, and there lay before me 
a pile of crumpled banknotes, a pile of sovereigns, 
and a handful of silver. 

“ ’T is n’t much, your reverence, but it is all I 
have. Take it and give it to that good gintle- 
man, or thim who are houlding him, and sind him 
back to us agin.” 

“ T is a big sum of money, Nell, which a 
poor woman like you could hardly afford to 
give — ” 

“ If it were tin millions times as much, your 
reverence, I ’d give it to him, my darlin’ gintle- 


44° My New Curate 

man. Sure, an’ ’t was he came to me up on that 
lonesome hill in all the rain and cowld of last win- 
ter ; and ’t was he said to me, ‘ Me poor woman, 
how do you live at all ! And where ’s the kittle? ’ 
sez he ; but sure, I had no kittle ; but he took up 
a black burnt tin, and filled it with wather, and put 
the grain of tay in it, and brought it over to me ; 
and thin he put his strong arm under my pillow, 
and lifted me up, and ‘ Come, me poor woman,’ sez 
he, ‘ you must be wake from fastin’ ; take this ; * 
and thin he wint around like a ’uman and set things 
to rights; and I watchin’ him and blessin’ him all 
the time in my heart of hearts ; and now to think 
of him without bite or sup; — wisha, tell me, your 
reverence,” she said, abruptly changing her sub- 
ject, “how much was it? Sure, I thought there 
was always a dacent living for our priests at Kil- 
ronan. But the times are bad, and the people are 
quare.” 

It needed all my eloquence and repeated assev- 
erations to persuade her that Father Letheby was 
not gone to gaol as yet, and most probably would 
not go. And it was not disappointment, but a 
sense of personal injury and insult, that over- 
shadowed her fine old face as I gathered up her 
money and returned it to her. She went back 
to her lonely cabin in misery. 

When Father Letheby came in and sat down 
to a late dinner, I told him all. He was deeply 
affected. 


Stigmata? 441 

“ There is some tremendous mine of the gold 
of human excellence in these good people,” he 
said ; “ but the avenues to it are so tortuous and 
difficult, it seems hardly worth while seeking for. 
They are capable of the most stupendous sacri- 
fices provided they are out of the common ; but 
it is the regular system and uniformity of the nat- 
ural and human law that they despise. But have 
you any letter for me ? ” 

“ None. But here is a tremendous indictment 
against myself from Duff.” 

“No letter from the bishop?” he said despond- 
ently, as he opened and read the letter, which ran 
thus : — 

Atheloy, 1 3/ 10/ 7—, 

Rev. dear Father Dan : — How has all this miser- 
able business occurred? Well, to our minds, you alone 
are culpable and responsible. We must seem to Letheby 
to be utter caitiffs and cowards, to allow matters to 
come to such a horrible crisis, especially in the case 
of a sensitive fellow like him. But up to the date of 
that horrible exposure in Stubbs’, we had no idea 
there were complications with those factory people — 
nothing, in fact, beyond the responsibilities of that 
unhappy boat. Now, why didn’t you let us know? 
You may not be aware that the evening of the disaster 
I made a solemn engagement to stand by him to the 
end ; and now all this must seem the merest bragga- 
docio. And yet, the thing was a trifle. Would you 
tell Letheby now, that it will be all right in a few 
days, and to cheer up ; no harm done, beyond a tem- 
porary humiliation ! But we ’ll never dine with you 


44 2 My New Curate 

again, and we shall, one and all, brave the Episcopal 
anger by refusing to be your curates when Letheby is 
promoted. 

Yours, etc., 

Charles L. Duff, C. C. 

“ He ’s very kind, very kind, indeed,” said 
Father Letheby, meditatively; “ but I cannot see 
how he is going to make it all right in a few 
days.” 

“ It would n’t surprise me much,” I replied, “ if 
that good young fellow had already put a sop in 
those calves’ mouths over there at Kilkeel.” 

“ Impossible ! ” he cried. 

“ Well, time will tell.” 

I called down to see Alice and talk over 
things. It is wonderful what a clairvoyante she 
has become. She sees everything as in a magic 
mirror. 

“I think the Holy Souls will come to his relief,” 
she said, in a cool, calm way. “ He has, I think, 
a great devotion to the Holy Souls. He told me 
once, when we were talking about holy things, 
that he makes a viemento in every Mass of the 
most neglected and abandoned priest in purga- 
tory; but, sure, priests don’t go to purgatory, 
Father Dan, do they?” 

“ Well, my dear, I cannot answer you in general 
terms ; but there ’s one that will be certainly 
there before many years; and unless you and 
Father Letheby and Bittra pull him out by your 


Stigmata? 443 

prayers, I ’m afraid — But continue what you 
were saying.” 

“ He makes a memento , he said, for the most 
abandoned priest, and for the soul that is next to 
be released. And whenever he has not a special 
intention, he always gives his Mass to our Blessed 
Lady for that soul. Now, I think, that’s very 
nice. Just imagine that poor soul waiting inside 
the big barred gates, and the angel, probably her 
warder for many years, outside. They don’t ex- 
change a word. They are only waiting, waiting. 
Far within are the myriads of Holy Souls, praying, 
suffering, loving, hoping. There is a noise as of 
a million birds, fluttering their wings above the 
sea. But here at the gate is silence, silence. She 
dares not ask: When? — because the angel does 
not know. Now and again he looks at her and 
smiles, and she is praying softly to herself. Sud- 
denly there is a great light in the darkness over- 
head, and then there is a dawn on the night of 
purgatory; for a great spirit is coming down 
swiftly, swiftly, on wings of light, until he reaches 
the prison-house. Then he hands the warder- 
angel a letter from the Queen of Heaven ; and in 
a moment, back swing the gates, and in plunges 
the guardian angel, and wraps up that expectant 
soul in his strong wings, and up, up, up, through 
starry night and sunny day they go, until they 
come into the singing heavens ; and up along the 
great avenues of smiling angels, until at last the 


444 My New Curate 

angel lays down that soul gently at the feet of 
Mary. And all this was done by a quiet priest in 
a remote, whitewashed chapel, here by the At- 
lantic, and there was no one with him but the 
little boy who rang the bell.” 

I had been listening to this rhapsody with the 
greatest admiration, when just then Bittra came in. 
She has got over the most acute period of her 
grief, “ except when,” she says, “ she looks at the 
sea and thinks of what is there.” 

“ Alice is prophesying,” I said ; “ she is going 
to take Father Letheby out of his purgatory on 
Monday.” 

“ Ah, no, Daddy Dan, that ’s not fair. But I 
think he will be relieved from his cross.” 

“And what about your own troubles, Alice?” 
said Bittra. “ Is the healing process going on?” 

“Yes, indeed, thank God,” she replied, “except 
here and there.” 

Bittra was watching me curiously. Now it is quite 
a certain fact, but I never dreamed of attaching 
any importance to it, that this child had recovered 
her perfect health, so far as that dreadful scrofu- 
lous affection extended, except in the palms of 
her hands and the soles of her feet, where there 
remained, to the doctor’s intense disappointment, 
round, angry sores, about the size of a half-crown, 
and each surrounded with a nimbus of raw, red 
flesh, which bled periodically. 

“ And here, also,” she said innocently this even- 


Stigmata? 445 

ing, “ here on my side is a raw sore which some- 
times is very painful and bleeds copiously. I have 
not shown the doctor that; but he gets quite 
cross about my hands and feet.” 

“ It is very curious,” I said, in my own purblind 
fashion, “ but I suppose the extremities heal last.” 

“ I shall walk home with you, Father Dan, if 
you have no objection,” said Bittra. 

“ Come along, child,” I replied. “ Now, Alice, 
we shall be watching Monday, All Souls’ Day.” 

“ Very well, Daddy Dan,” she said, smiling. 
“ Everything will come right, as we shall see.” 

As we walked through the village, Bittra said to 
me wonderingly : — 

“Isn’t it curious about those sores, Father? 
They won’t heal.” 

“ It is,” I said musingly. 

“ I have been thinking a lot about it,” she said. 

“ And the result of your most wise meditations? ” 

“You ’ll laugh at me.” 

“ Never. I never laugh. I never allow myself 
to pass beyond the genteel limits of a smile.” 

“ Then I think — but — ” 

“Say it out, child. What are you thinking of? ” 

“ I think it is the stigmata ,” she said, blushing 
furiously. 

I was struck silent. It was too grand. Could 
it be? Had we a real, positive saint amongst us? 

“What do you think, Father Dan? Are you 
angry ? ” 


446 My New Curate 

“ God forbid, child. But tell me, have you 
spoken to Alice on the matter?” 

“ Oh, dear no ! I would n’t dream of such a 
thing. It would give her an awful shock.” 

“ Well, we ’ll keep it a profound secret, and 
await further revelations. * Abscondisti haec a 
prudentibus, et revelasti ea parvulis.’ ” 

But next evening, I think I threw additional 
fervor into the Latidate's and Benedicite s at Lauds. 

But as I looked at Father Letheby across the 
table in the lamplight, and saw his drawn, sallow 
cheeks and sunken eyes, and the white patch of 
hair over his ears, I could not help saying to my- 
self: “ You, too, have got your stigmata , my poor 
fellow ! ” 


CHAPTER XXX 
all’s well 

The soul of Jem Deady was grievously perturbed. 
That calm and placid philosopher had lost his 
equanimity. It showed itself in many ways, — in 
violent abstraction at meal-times, and the ghoulish 
way in which he swallowed cups of tea, and 
bolted potatoes wholesale; in strange muttered 
soliloquies in which he called himself violent and 
opprobrious names; in sacrilegious gestures to- 
wards Father Letheby’s house. And once, when 
Bess, alarmed about his sanity, and hearing 
dreadful sounds of conflict from his bedroom, and 
such expressions as these: “How do you like 
that ? ” “ Come on, you ruffian ! ” “ You ’ll want 

a beefsteak for your eye and not for your stomach, 
you glutton ! ” when Bess, in fear and trembling, 
entered the bedroom, she found her amiable 
spouse belaboring an innocent bolster which, 
propped against the wall, did service vicariously 
for some imaginary monster of flesh and blood. 
To all Bess’s anxious inquiries there was but one 
answer: “Let me alone, ’uman; I’m half out o’ 
my mind! ” There should be a climax, of course, 
to all this, and it came. It was not the odor of 
the steaks and onions that, wafted across inter- 


448 My New Curate 

vening gardens from Father Letheby’s kitchen, 
precipitated the crisis; nor the tears of Lizzie, 
who appeared from time to time, a weeping 
Niobe, and whose distress would have touched 
the heart of a less susceptible Irishman than Jem 
Deady; nor yet the taunts of the women of the 
village, who stung him with such sarcasms as 
these: “Yes; Faynians begor, with their drill- 
ing, an’ their antics, an’ their corporals, an’ 
their sergeants, — they couldn’t hunt a flock of 
geese. Dere goes de captain! — look at him an’ 
his airs; and thim Dublin jackeens above in the 
priest’s house, atin’ him out o’ house and home, 
and not a man in Kilronan able to lay a wet 
finger on ’em.” But, as in all great crises, it is 
the simple thing that proves the last straw, so in 
this. What steaks and onions, tears and taunts, 
could not do, was done by an innocent Havana, 
whose odors, sprung from a dainty weed, held 
between the lips of one of these great representa- 
tives of Her Majesty’s law, and wafted to the 
senses of Jem Deady, as he bent over his cab- 
bages in his little garden, made him throw down 
his spade with something that seemed like, and 
most unlike, a prayer, and rush into the house 
and shout: “Tare an’ houns ! Flesh and blood 
can’t stand this! Don’t shpake a word, ’uman! 
Don’t shpake a word ! but get me soap, and hot 
wather, and a towel, while you’d be saying 
thrapsticks ! ” 



“ Come down to Mrs. Haley’s — there isn’t a better dhrop betune 
this and Dublin.” (p. 452.) 



































. 





























. 






























































All’s Well 


449 


Bess did as she was directed; and then paused 
anxiously in the kitchen to conjecture what new 
form her husband’s insanity was taking. Occa- 
sionally a muttered growl came from the recesses 



“ Come on, you ruffian ! n 

of the bedroom; and in about a quarter of an 
hour out came Jem, so transformed that Bess 
began to doubt her own sanity, and could only 
say, through her tears : — 

“For the love of God, Jem, is ’t yourself or 
your ghost ? ” 

It certainly was not a ghost, but a fine, hand- 
29 


450 My New Curate 

some man, over six feet high, his hair curled, 
and his whiskers shining with Trotter Oil, and 
his long pilot coat with the velvet collar, which 
he had got from Father Laverty, and on which 
the merciful night, now falling, concealed the 
abrasions of time. Bess looked at him with all 
a wife’s admiration; and then, half crying, half 
laughing, said : — 

“And what new divilmint are ye up to now? ” 

Jem answered not a word. He was on the 
war-path. He only said sarcastically: — 

“Ye needn’t expect me home to tay, Mrs. 
Deady. I ’m taking tay with shupparior com- 
pany to-night.” 

An hour later there were three gentlemen in 
Father Letheby’s parlor, who appeared to have 
known each other in antenatal times, so affec- 
tionate and confidential were they. The gentle- 
man in the middle was sympathizing with his 
brethren in the legal profession — for he had 
introduced himself as the local bailiff — on 
their being sent down from the metropolis 
and its gayeties, from their wives and children, 
into this remote and forsaken village called 
Kilronan. 

“It ain’t too bad,” said one, with a strong 
Northern accent. “A’ have bun in wuss diggins 
thon thus ! ” 

Then the conversation drifted to possible dan- 
gers. And it appeared there was not, in Her 


All’s Well 


45 1 


Majesty’s dominions, a more lawless and fiendish 
set of ruffians than those who lurked in Kilronan. 
Why, what did they do in the days of the Lague? 
Did n’t they take his predecessor, as honest a 



“ For the love of God, Jem, is ’t yourself or your ghost? ” 

man as ever lived, and strip him, and nail him 
by the ears to his door, where his neighbors 
found him in the morning? But “the poluss? 
the poluss?” “Oh! they’re always looking the 
other way. But let us get the taste of these 
murderin’ ruffians out o’ our mout’ ! Come down 


452 My New Curate 

to Mrs. Haley’s. There isn’t a better dhrop 
betune this and Dublin.’' 

“But the proputty? the proputty ?” said the 
bailiffs, looking around anxiously. 

“As safe as if ye had it in yere waistcoat 
pockets,” they were assured. 

The three well-dressed gentlemen moved with 
easy dignity down the one dark street of the vil- 
lage, piloted carefully by the central figure, who 
linked his arms affectionately in his comrades’, 
and smoked his weed with as much dignity as if 
he had been born in Cuba. 

“Powerful dark hole!” said one; “one mut git 
a blow o’ a stun and nuvver be the wiser.” 

“Or the prod of a pike,” suggested the middle 
gentleman. 

“Huv tha’ no gaws here?” cried his neighbor. 

“No. But we’re thinkin’ of getting up the 
electric light; at laste the parish priest do be 
talkin’ about it, and sure that ’s the same as 
havin’ it. But here we are. Now, one word! 
There ’s one ruffian here whose name must n’t 
pass yere mout’, or we don’t know the conse- 
kinces. He ’s a most consaited and outrageous 
ruffian, doesn’t care for law or judge, or priest or 
pope; he ’s the only one ye have to be afeard of. 
Listen, that ye may remimber. His name is 
Jem Deady. Keep yere mouths locked on that 
while ye’re here.” 

It was a pleasant little party in Mrs. Haley’s 


All’s Well 453 

“ cosey ” or “ snuggery. ” There was warmth, and 
light, and music, and the odor of rum -punch and 
lemon, and the pungency of cigars, and the pleas- 
ant stimulus of agreeable conversation. Occa- 
sionally one of the “byes” looked in, but was 
promptly relegated to the taproom, at a civil 
distance from the “gintlemin.” By and by, 
however, as more charity and less exclusiveness 
prevailed under the generous influences of good 
liquor, the “gintlemin” requested to be allowed 
to show the light of their glowing faces in the 
plebeian taproom; and the denizens of the latter, 
prompt at recognizing this infinite condescension, 
cheered the gentlemen to the echo. 

“’Tis the likes of ye we wants down here,” 
they cried; “not a set of naygurs who can’t buy 
their tay without credit.” 

But the local bailiff didn’t seem to like it, and 
kept aloof from the dissipation. Also, he drank 
only “liminade.” It was admitted in after years 
that this was the greatest act of self-denial that 
was recorded in history. His comrades chaffed 
him unmercifully. 

“ Come, mon, and git out o’ the blues. Whoy, 
these are the jolliest fullows we uver mot.” 

“And there isn’t better liquor in the Cawstle 
cellars. Here ’s to yer health, missus.” 

So the night wore on. 

But two poor women had an anxious time. 
These were Lizzie, who, in some mysterious 


454 My New Curate 

manner, persuaded herself that she was respon- 
sible for the custody and safe keeping of the 
bailiffs in the eyes of the law; and if anything 
happened to them she might be summoned up to 
Dublin, and put on her trial on the capital 
charge. The other was Mrs. Deady. When 
eleven o’clock struck, she expected to hear every 
moment the well-known footsteps of her spouse; 
but no ! Half-past eleven — twelve struck — and 
Jem had not returned. At half-past twelve there 
was a peculiar scratching sound at the back- 
door, and Bess opened it and dragged Jem into 
her arms, whilst she poured into his face a fire 
of cross-questions. 

“ Ax me no questions an’ I ’ll tell ye no lies,” 
said Jem. “ Have ye anythin’ to ate? ” 

Bess had, in the shape of cold fat bacon. Jem 
set to hungrily. 

“Would ye mind covering up the light in the 
front windy, Bess?” said Jem. 

Bess did so promptly, all the while looking at 
her spouse in a distressed and puzzled manner. 

“Jem,” said she at length, “may the Lord 
forgive me if I ’m wrong, but I think ye’re quite 
sober.” 

Jem nodded. A knock came to the door. It 
was Lizzie. 

“ Have ye no news of the bailiffs, Jem ? ” 

“ I have, acushla. I left them at your dure 
half an hour ago, and they’re now fast asleep in 
their warm and comfortable beds. ” 


All’s Well 455 

“ They ’re not in our house,” said Lizzie, 
alarmed. “Oh, Jem, Jem, what have ye done, 
at all, at all?” 

“I’ll tell ye, girl,” said Jem, emphatically. 
“ I left the gintlemin at your dure, shook hands 
wid them, bid them good-night, and came down 
here. Is that thrue, Bess? ” 

“Every word of it,” said Bess. 

“Go back to your bed, alanna,” said Jem, 
“ and have pleasant dhreams of your future. 
Thim gintlemin can mind theirselves.” 

“’Tis thrue, Lizzie,” said Bess. “Go home, 
like a good girl, and make your mind aisy. ” 

Lizzie departed, crying softly to herself. 

“What mischief have ye done, Jem?” said 
Bess, when she had carefully locked and bolted 
the door. “Some day ye’ll be dancin’ upon 
nothin’, I’m thinkin’.” 

“ Nabocklish ! ” said Jem, as he knelt down 
and piously said his prayers for the night. 

The following day was Sunday and All Saints’ 
Day besides; and Jem, being a conscientious 
man, heard an early Mass ; and being a constitu- 
tional man, he strolled down to take the fresh 
air — down the grassy slopes that lead to the sea. 
Jem was smoking placidly and at peace with 
himself and the world. One trifle troubled him. 
It was a burn on the lip, where the candle had 
caught him the night before at Mrs. Haley’s, 
when he was induced to relax a little, and with 


456 My New Curate 

his hands tied behind his back, grabbed at a rosy 
apple, and caught the lighted candle in his 
mouth. But that was a trifle. As Jem calmly 
strolled along, he became suddenly aware of a 
marine phenomenon; and Jem, as a profound 
student of natural history, was so interested in 
the phenomenon that he actually took the pipe 
from his mouth and studied the marvel long and 
carefully. About twenty yards from where he 
was standing, a huge pile of rock started suddenly 
from the deep — a square, embattled mass, cov- 
ered by the short, springy turf that alone can 
resist the action of the sea. Beside it, a tall 
needle of rock, serrated and sharp, shot up. 
These two solitary islands, the abode of goats 
and gulls, were known in local geography as the 
Cow and Calf. Now the Cow and Calf were 
familiar to Jem Deady from his childhood. So 
were the deep, hollow caves beneath. So was 
the angry swirl of the tide that, parted outside 
the rocks, swept around in fierce torrents, and 
met with a shock of strength and a sweat of foam 
at the angle near the cliffs. Therefore, these 
things did not surprise the calm, equable mind of 
Jem. But perched on the sward on the top were 
two strange beings, the like of whom Jem had 
never seen before, and whom his fancy now at 
once recognized as the mermen of fable and 
romance. Their faces were dark as that of his 
sable majesty; their hair was tossed wildly. But 


All’s Well 457 

they looked the picture of despair, whereas mer- 
men were generally reputed to be jolly. It 
might be no harm to accost them, and Jem was 
not shy about strangers. 

“Hallo, there!” he cried across the chasm; 
“who the — are ye? Did ye shwim across from 
ole Virginny, or did ye escape from a throupe of 
Christy Minstrels?” 

“You, fellow,” said a mournful voice, “go at 
once for the poluss.” 

“Aisier said than done,” said Jem. “What 
am I to say suppose the gintlemin are not out of 
their warm beds ? ” 

“Tell them that two of Her gracious Majesty’s 
servants are here — brought here by the worst set 
of ruffians that are not yet hanged in Ireland.” 

“And what do ye expect the police to do?” 
said Jem, calmly. 

“To do? Why, to get a boat and tuk us out o’ 
thus, I suppose ! ” 

“Look at yere feet,” said Jem, “and tell me 
what kind of a boat would live there?” 

True enough. The angry waters were hissing, 
and embracing, and swirling back, and trying to 
leap the cliffs, and feeling with all their awful 
strength and agility for some channel through 
which they might reach and devour the prisoners. 

By some secret telegraphy a crowd had soon 
gathered. One by one, the “byes” dropped 
down from the village, and to each in turn Jem 


458 My New Curate 

had to tell all he knew about the mermen. Then 
commenced a running fire of chaff from every 
quarter. 

“Where are yere banjoes, gintlemin? Ye 
might as well spind the Sunday pleasantly, for 
the sorra a wan o’ ye will get off before night.” 

“Start ‘ Way down the Suwanee River,’ Jem, 
and we ’ll give ’em a chorus.” 

“You’re Jem Deady, I suppose,” said one of 
the bailiffs. “Well, Deady, remember you ’re a 
marked mon. I gut yer cherickter last night 
from a gentleman as the greatest ruffian amongst 
all the ruffians of Kilronan — ” 

“ Yerra, man, ye ’retakin’ laveof yer sinses. Is ’t 
Jem Deady? Jem Deady, the biggest omadhaun 
in the village.” 

“Jem Deady, the greatest gommat 1 that ever 
lived.” 

“Jem Deady, that doesn’t know his right hand 
from his left.” 

“Jem Deady, who doesn’t know enough to 
come in out of the wet.” 

“Jem Deady, the innocent, that isn’t waned 
from his mother ayet. ” 

During all these compliments Jem smoked 
placidly. I had forgotten one of the most serious 
duties of a novelist — the description of Jem’s 
toilette. I had forgotten to say that a black pilot 
coat with velvet collar, red silk handkerchief, 


1 A half-ic'liot. 


All’s Well 459 

etc., was a veritable Nessus shirt to Jem. So 
passionately fond of work was he, and so high an 
idea had he conceived on the sacredness and 
nobleness of work, that integuments savoring of 
Sabbath indolence were particularly intolerable 
to him. He moved about stiffly in them, was 
glad to shake them off, and resume his white, 
lime-stained, patched, and torn, but oh ! such 
luxuriously easy garments of every-day life. Then 
I regret to have to record an act of supreme 
vanity, that might be pardonable or venial in a 
young lady going to a ball or coming out in her 
first concert, but was simply shocking in a 
middle-aged man going out to Mass on a Sunday 
morning. Jem Deady actually powdered his face! 
I do not say that it was violet powder or that 
he used a puff. His methods were more primitive 
and more successful. He went to a pot where 
lime was seething, or rather had been seething. 
He took up the thick lumps and crushed them 
into dust. He made his face as white as if he 
were going to play the king in Macbeth, and 
Banquo’s ghost was arising; and he turned his 
glossy locks into a cadaverous and premature 
grayness, and Bess didn’t like it. She wanted to 
see him only one Sunday in “his best shuit” ; 
but Jem, unkind fellow, would not grant her that 
gratification. 

Where was I ? Oh, yes ! 

Jem, nothing loth, “ruz” the “ Suwanee River,” 


460 My New Curate 

and accompanying himself on an imaginary banjo, 
drew tears from all eyes by singing, with mingled 
pathos and regret : — 

“ All the world am sad and dreary 
Eberywhere I roam; 

Oh ! darkies, how my heart grows weary, 

Far from the old folks at home.” 

Then commenced a fresh cross-fire of chaff. 

“The gintlemin in the orchaystra will now 
favor the company wit* a song. ” 

Suddenly one young rascal shouted out : — 
“Begor, perhaps it’s badin’ ye were goin\ 
Don’t ye know the rigulations of the coast? If 
ye were caught takin’ off even yere hats here 
without puttin’ on a badin’-dress, ye ’d be dragged 
before the Mayor and Lord Lieutenant of Kil- 
ronan, and get six weeks’ paynal servitude.” 

Then suddenly a bright idea seemed to dawn 
on these scamps. There was a good deal of 
whispering, and nodding, and pointing; and at 
last Jem Deady stepped forward, and in a voice 
full of awe and sorrow he said : — 

“Wan of the byes is thinkin’ that maybe ye ’re 
the same strange gintlemin that are on a visit 
with the priest for the last three days, and who 
were dacent enough to shtand 4 dhrinks all round ’ 
last night at Mrs. Haley’s. ’Pon the vartue of 
yere oath, are ye ? ” / 

“ We are. Und dom fools we made of our- 
selves.” 


All’s Well 461 

“Now, aisy, aisy,” said Jem. “Ye don’t know 
us as yet; but sure wan good turn desarves 
another.” 

“Ye appear to be a dacent sort of fellow,” said 
one of the bailiffs. “ Now, look here. If ye 
get us ’ut of thus, we’ll gev ye a pun’ note, and 
as much dhrink as ye can bear. ” 

Here there was a cheer. 

“The tide goes down at four o’clock,” said 
Jem, “and thin for eight minits there is a dhry 
passage across the rocks. Thin ye must run for 
yere lives, and we’ll be here to help ye. But 
how the divil did ye get there? We never saw 
but a goat there afore.” 

“That’s a matter for the Queen’s Bench, my 
fine fellow. God help those who brought us 
here !” 

“Amen!” cried all devoutly, lifting their 
ragged hats. Then they departed to make the 
needful preparation. After they had half mounted 
the declivity, one was sent back. 

“The gintlemin who are going to resky ye,” 
he said, “ wants to know if ye have any conscien- 
tious objection to be brought over on the Sab- 
bath; or wud ye rather remain where ye are till 
Monday ? ” 

He was answered with an oath, and went away 
sadly. He was scandalized by such profanity. 
“Sich language on a Sunday mornin’, glory be 
to God! What is the wbrld cornin’ to?” 


462 My New Curate 

Four o’clock came, and the entire village of 
Kilronan turned out to the rescue. There were 
at least one thousand spectators of the interesting 
proceedings, and each individual of the thousand 
had a remark to make, a suggestion to offer, or a 
joke to deliver at the unhappy prisoners. And 
all was done under an affectation of sympathy 
that was deeply touching. Two constables kept 
order, but appeared to enjoy the fun. Now, in 
any other country but Ireland, and perhaps, in- 
deed, we may also except Spain and France and 
Italy, a simple thing is done in a simple, unos- 
tentatious manner. That does not suit the genius 
of our people, which tries to throw around the 
simplest matter all the pomp and circumstance 
of a great event, and in the evolution thereof 
every man, woman, and child is supposed to 
have a personal interest, and a special and direct 
calling to order and arrange and bring the 
whole proceeding to perfection. Now, you would 
say, what could be simpler than to fling a rope to 
the prisoners and let them walk across on the dry 
rocks? That’s your ignorance and your con- 
tempt for details; for no Alpine guides, about to 
cross the crevasses of a dangerous glacier, with 
a nervous and timid following of tourists, ever 
made half the preparations that Jem Deady and 
his followers made on this occasion. Two stout 
fishermen, carrying a strong cable, clambered 
down the cliff, and crossed the narrow ledge of 


All’s Well 463 

rock, now wet with seaweed and slippery. They 
might have gone down, with perfect ease, the 
goat-path, sanded and gravelled, by which the 
bailiffs were carried the night before; but this 
would not be value for a pound and the copious 
libations that were to follow. They then tied 
the cable around the bailiffs and around them- 
selves, and proceeded on their perilous journey. 
With infinite care they stepped on rock and 
seaweed, shouting hoarse warnings to their 
mates; but all their warnings were not sufficient 
to prevent the bailiffs from slipping and floun- 
dering in the deep sea-water pools left by the 
receding tide. Somehow the rope would jerk, 
or a fisherman would slip, and down all would 
come together. Meanwhile hoarse shouts echoed 
from the gallery of spectators above. 

“Pull aft there, Bill.” 

“ Let her head stand steady to the cliff. ” 

“Port your helm, you lubber; don’t you see 
where you ’re standing for? ” 

“Ease her, ease her, Tim! Now let her 
for’ard.” And so, with shouts, and orders, and 
a fair sprinkling of profane adjurations, the 
rescuers and the rescued were hauled up the 
roughest side of the cliff, until the black visages 
of the bailiffs were visible. Then there was a 
pause, and many a sympathetic word for the 
“poor min.” 

“ Where did they come from, at all? ” 


464 My New Curate 

“No one knows. They’re poor shipwrecked 
furriners.” 

“ Have they any talk? ” 

“Very little, except to curse.” 

“ Poor min ! and I suppose they ’re all drowned 
.wet.” 

Whilst the rescuing party halted, and wiped 
the perspiration from their brows, one said, half 
apologetically : — 

“ I am axed by these gintlemin to tell ye — 
ahem ! that there ’s a rule in this village that no 
credit is given, from the price of an ounce of tay 
to a pound of tobakky. An’ if ye ’d be so plasin’ 
as to remimber that poun’ note ye promised, an’ if 
it is convanient and contagious to ye, perhaps — ” 

One of the bailiffs fumbled at his pockets in 
his critical condition, and making a round ball of 
the note, he flung it up the cliff side with a ges- 
ture of disgust. Jem Deady took up the missive, 
opened it calmly, studied the numbers, and put 
it in his pocket. 

“Now, byes, a long pull, a sthrong pull, and 
a pull thegither ! ” 

And in an instant the bailiffs were sprawling 
on the green turf. Such cheers, such congratula- 
tions, such slapping on the back, such hip! hip! 
hurrahs! were never heard before. Then the 
procession formed and passed on to the village; 
and to the melodious strains of “ God save Ire- 
land!” the bailiffs were conducted to Father 


* 



9 ” 


“ Hallo, there ! 


who the 


are ye 


(p. 457.) 













- — - - — r 
































All’s Well 465 

Letheby’s house. Lizzie, half crying, half laugh- 
ing with delight for having escaped arrest and 
capital punishment, prepared dinner with alacrity; 
and then a great hush fell on the village — the 
hush of conjecture and surmise. Would the 
bailiffs remain or depart ? Would they recognize 
the deep hatred of the villagers under all the 
chaff and fun, or would they take it as a huge 
joke? The same questioning agitated their own 
minds; but they decided to go for two reasons, 
viz., (1) that, fresh from the conflict, they could 
give a more lurid description of their adventure, 
and obtain larger compensation ; and (2) that 
whilst Jem Deady was scraping, with no gentle 
hand, the oil and lampblack from their faces, 
that he had placed there the evening before, he 
told them, confidentially, to put a hundred miles 
between themselves and the villagers that night, 
if they did not care to leave their measures for a 
coffin. And so, at six o’clock a car was hired, 
and amidst a farewell volley of sarcastic cheers 
and uncomplimentary epithets, they drove to 
catch the night-mail to Dublin. Father Letheby 
promptly took possession, and found nothing 
wrong, except the odor of some stale tobacco 
smoke. 

Next day was All Souls’, and it was with whi- 
tened lips, and with disappointment writ in every 
one of his fine features, that he came up after 
30 


466 My New Curate 

Mass to ask had I received any letter. Alas, no ! 
He had pinned his faith, in his own generous, 
child-like way, to Alice’s prophecy, and the Holy 
Souls had failed him. I went down to see Alice. 
She looked at me inquiringly. 

“No letter, and no reprieve,” I said. “You 
false prophetess, you child of Mahomet, what did 
you mean by deceiving us ? ” 

She was crying softly. 

“Nevertheless,” she said at length, “it will 
come true. The Holy Souls will never fail him. 
The day is not past, nor the morrow.” 

Oh, woman, great is thy faith ! 

Yet it was a melancholy day, a day of conjec- 
ture and fear, a day of sad misgivings and sadder 
forebodings; and all through the weary hours the 
poor priest wore more than ever the aspect of a 
hunted fugitive. 

Next morning the cloud lifted at last. He 
rushed up to my house, before he had touched his 
breakfast, and, fluttering one letter in the air, 
he proffered the other. 

“There’s the bishop’s seal,” he cried. “I 
was afraid to open it. Will you do it for 
me?” 

I did, cutting the edges open with all rever- 
ence, as became the purple seal, and then I 
read : — 

Bishop’s House, All Souls’ Day, 187-. 

I nodded my head. Alice was right. 


4 6 7 


All ’s Well 

My dear Father Letheby : — 

“What?” he cried, jumping up, and coming 
behind my chair to read over my shoulder. 

I have just appointed Father Feely to the pastoral 
charge of Athlacca, vacated by the death of Canon 
Jones ; and I hereby appoint you to the administrator- 
ship of my cathedral and mensal priest here. In doing 
so, I am departing somewhat from the usual custom, 
seeing that you have been but one year in the diocese ; 
but in making this appointment, I desire to mark my 
recognition of the zeal and energy you have manifested 
since your advent to Kilronan. I have no doubt what- 
ever but that you will bring increased zeal to the dis- 
charge of your larger duties here. Come over, if 
possible, for the Saturday confessions here, and you will 
remain with me until you make your own arrangements 
about your room at the presbytery. 

I am, my dear Father Letheby, 

Yours in Christ, 


“I never doubted the bishop,” I said, when I 
had read that splendid letter a second time. 
“His Lordship knows how to distinguish between 
the accidents of a priestly life and the essentials 
of the priestly character. You have another 
letter, I believe ? ” 

“Yes,” he replied, as if he were moonstruck; 
“a clear receipt from the Loughboro’ Factory Co. 
for the entire amount.” 

“Then Alice was right. God bless the Holy 
Souls! — though I ’m not sure if that ’s the right 
expression.” 


468 My New Curate 

There never was such uproar in Kilronan 
before. The news sped like wildfire. The vil- 
lage turned out en masse. Father Letheby had 
to stand such a cross-fire of blessings and ques- 
tions and prayers, that we decided he had better 
clear out on Thursday. Besides, there was an 
invitation from Father Duff to meet a lot of the 
brethren at an agape at his house on Thursday 
night, when Father Letheby would be en route. 
God bless me ! I thought that evening we ’d 
never get the little mare under way. The people 
thronged round the little trap, kissed the young 
curate’s hand, kissed the lapels of his coat, 
demanded his blessing a hundred times, fondled 
the mare and patted her head, until at last, 
slowly, as a glacier pushing its moraine before it, 
we wedged our way through a struggling mass of 
humanity. 

“ God be wid you, a hundred times ! ” 

“And may His Blessed Mother purtect 
you ! ” 

“And may your journey thry wid you!” 

“Yerra, the bishop, ’oman, could not get on 
widout him. That ’s the raison ! ” 

“Will we iver see ye agin, yer reverence?” 

Then a deputation of the “ Holy Terrors ” came 
forward to ask him let his name remain as their 
honorary president. 

“We’ll never see a man again to lift a ball 
like yer reverence.” 


All’s Well 469 

“No, nor ye ’ll niver see the man agin that cud 
rise a song like him ! ” said Jem Deady. 

Father Letheby had gone down in the after- 
noon to see Alice. Alice had heard, and Alice 
was crying with lonely grief. He took up her 
small white hand. 

“ Alice,” he said, “I came to thank you, my 
child, for all that you have done for me. Your 
prayers, your tears, but, above all, your noble 
example of endurance under suffering, have been 
an ineffable source of strength to me. I have 
wavered where you stood firm under the cross — ” 

“ Oh ! Father, don’t, don’t ! ” sobbed the poor 
girl. 

‘‘I must,” he said; “I must tell you that your 
courage and constancy have shamed and strength- 
ened me a hundredfold. And now you must pray 
for me. I dare say I have yet further trials 
before me; for I seem to be one of those who 
shall have no peace without the cross. But I 

need strength, and that you will procure for 

_ >> 
me. 

“ Father, Father!” said the poor girl, “it is 
you that have helped me. Where would I be 
to-day if you had not shown me the Crucified 
behind the cross ? ” 

He laid in her outstretched hand a beautiful 
prayer-book ; and thus they parted, as two souls 
should part, knowing that an invisible link in the 
Heart of Christ held them still together. 


470 My New Curate 

The parting with Bittra was less painful. He 
promised often to run over and remain at the 
“Great House,” where he had seen some strange 
things. Nor did he forget his would-be benefac- 
tress, Nell Cassidy. He found time to be kind 
to all. 

What a dinner was that at Father Duff’s! 
Was there ever before such a tumult of glad- 
ness, such Alleluias of resurrection, such hip! 
hip ! hurrahs ! such grand and noble speeches ? 
The brave fellows had joined hands, and 
dragged the beaten hero from the battlefield, 
and set the laurels on his head. Then they 
all wanted to become my curates, for “ Kilronan 
spells promotion now, you know.” But I 
was too wise to make promises. As we were 
parting for the night, I heard Father Letheby 
say to Duff : — 

“I am under everlasting obligations to you. 
But you shall have that boat money the moment 
it comes from the Insurance Office. And those 
sewing-machines are lying idle over there; they 
may be of use to you here. ” 

“ All right! Send them over, and we’ll give 
you a clear receipt. Look here, Letheby, it ’s 
I who am under obligations to you. I had a lot 
of these dirty shekels accumulated since I was in 
Australia; and I’m ashamed to say it, I had 
three figures to my credit down there at the 
National Bank. If I died in that state, ’t would 


All’s Well 471 

be awful. Now I have a fairly easy conscience, 
thanks again to you ! ” 

When I reached my room that ev — morning, I 
was shocked and startled to find the hour hand of 
my watch pointing steadily to two a. m. I rubbed 
my eyes. Impossible ! I held the watch to my 
ear. It beat rhythmically. I shook my head. 
Then, as I sat down in a comfortable armchair, 
I held a long debate with myself as to whether it 
was my night prayers or my morning prayers I 
should say. I compromised with my conscience, 
and said them both together under one formula. 
But when I lay down to rest, but not to sleep, 
the wheels began to revolve rapidly. I thought 
of a hundred brilliant things which I could have 
said at the dinner table, but did n’t. Such corus- 
cations of wit, such splendid periods, were never 
heard • before. Then my conscience began to 
trouble me. Two a. m. ! two a. m. ! two a. m. ! I 
tried back through all my philosophers for an 
apology. Horace, my old friend, came back from 
the shades of Orcus. 

“ Dulce est desipere in loco,” 

said he. Thank you, Flaccus ! You were always 
ready : — 

“ Quandoque bonus dormitat Homerus,” 

he cried, as he vanished into the shades. Then 
came Ovid, laurel-crowned, and began to sing: — 

« Somne, quies rerum, placidissime somne deorum ! ” 


47 2 My New Curate 

But I dismissed him promptly. Then Seneca 
hobbled in, old usurer as he was, and said : — 

“ Commodis omnium laeteris, movearis incommodis.” 

“ Good man!” I cried; “ that ’s just me ! ” 

Then came dear, gentle St. Paul, with the look 
on his face as when he pleaded for the slave : — 

“Rejoice with them that rejoice, and weep with them 
that weep ! ” 

Lastly, came my own Kempensis, who shook 
his head gravely at me, and said : — 

“A merry evening makes a sad morning! ” 

I like A Kempis; but indeed, and indeed, and in- 
deed again, Thomas, you are sometimes a little 
too personal in your remarks. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


FAREWELL 

Thomas a Kempis was right in saying that next 
morning would be a sad one — not on account of 
previous merriment ; but, as I drove home alone, 
the separation from Father Letheby affected me 
keenly. He had, to use a homely phrase, grown 
into my heart. Analyzing my own feelings, as 
I jogged along the country road, I found that it 
was not his attractive and polished manners, nor 
his splendid abilities, nor his sociability that had 
impressed me, but his open, manly character, 
forever bending to the weak, and scorning every- 
thing dishonorable. It was quite true that he 
“wore the white flower of a blameless life”; but 
that is expected and found in every priest; it 
was something else, — his manliness, his truth, 
that made him 

“ — my own ideal knight. 

Who reverenced his conscience as his king, 

Whose glory was redressing human wrongs ; 

Who spake no slander, no, nor listened to it. 

. . . We have lost him ; he is gone; 

We know him now ; all narrow jealousies 
Are silent ; and we see him as he moved, 

How modest, kindly, all-accomplished, wise, 

With what sublime repression of himself, 

And in what limits, and how tenderly ! ” 


474 My New Curate 

My poor boy ! my poor boy ! I thought he would 
be over me in my last hour to hear my last con- 
fession, and place the sacred oils on my old 
limbs, and compose me decently for my grave; 
but it was not to be. Vale , vale , longum vale! 

There was a letter from the bishop, and a large 
brown parcel before me when I reached my home. 
I opened the letter first. It ran thus : — 

My dear Father Dan : — The prebendary stall, va- 
cated by the death of the late Canon Jones, I now 
have much pleasure in offering for your acceptance. 
I suppose, if the to irpiirov always had force in this 
world, you would have been canon for the last twenty 
or thirty years ; but at least it is my privilege now to 
make compensation ; and I sincerely hope I may have 
the benefit of your wise counsel in the meetings of the 
Cathedral Chapter. It will also give you a chance of 
seeing sometimes your young friend, whom I have so 
suddenly removed; and this will weigh with you in 
accepting an honor which, if it has come tardily, may 
it be your privilege to wear for many years, 

I am, my dear Father Dan, 

Yours in Christ, 


“Kind, my Lord, always kind and thoughtful,” 
I murmured. 

Then I cut the strings of the parcel. It con- 
tained the rochet, mozzetta, and biretta of a 
canon, and was a present from some excellent 
Franciscan nuns, to whom I had been formerly 
chaplain, and who were charitable enough not to 


Farewell! 475 

have forgotten me. So there they were at last, 
the dream of half a lifetime. God help us ! what 
children we are ! Old and young, it ’s all the 
same. I suppose that is why God so loves us. 

I took up the dainty purpled and ermined 
mozzetta. It was soft, and beautiful, and fluffy. 
I could fold the entire rochet in the palms of my 
hands, the lace work was so fine and exquisite. 
I put them down with a sigh. My mind was fully 
made up. 

Hannah came in, and took in the situation at 
a glance. 

“ Did he give ’em to ye at last? ” 

“ He did, Hannah. How do you like them?” 

“ ’T was time for him ! Lor’, they ’re beautiful ! ” 

“ Hannah,” I said, “ have you any camphor or 
lavender in the house ? ” 

She looked at me suspiciously. 

“ I have,” she said. “What for? Aren’t you 
going to wear them ? ” 

“They are not intended to form the every- 
day walking-suit of a country parish priest,” I 
replied. “ They must be carefully put by for 
the present.” 

I took my hat and strolled down to see Alice. 
After telling her all the news, and Father 
Letheby’s triumphs, I said : — 

“ The bishop wants me to change my name, 
too ! ” 

“ You are not going?” she said in alarm. 


476 My New Curate 

“ No ; but his Lordship thinks I have been 
called Father Dan long enough; he wants me 
now to be known as the Very Rev. Canon 
Hanrahan.” 

“ It ’s like as if you were going away to a 
strange country,” she said. 

“ Do you think the people will take kindly to 
it? ” I said. 

“No! no! no!” she cried, shaking her head; 
“ you will be Father Dan and Daddy Dan to the 
end.” 

“ So be it ! ” I replied. 

I returned home, and just before dinner I 
penned two letters — one to my good nuns, thank- 
ing them for their kindness and generosity; the 
other to the bishop, thanking his Lordship ex ivio 
corde also, but declining the honor. I was too 
old, et detur digniori. Then I got my camphor 
and lavender, and laid the fragrant powder 
between the folds of the mozzetta. And then I 
took a sheet of paper and wrote : — 

To the 

Very Reverend Edward Canon Letheby, B.A., P.P., 
a gift from the grave 
of his old friend and pastor, 
the Rev. Daniel Hanrahan, P.P., 
more affectionately and familiarly known as 
“ Daddy Dan.” 

Then the old temptation came back to wind up 
with a lecture or quotation. I ransacked all my 


Farewell ! 


477 


classics, and met with many a wise and pithy 
saying, but not one pleased me. I was about to 
give up the search in despair, when, taking up a 
certain book, my eye caught a familiar red pencil- 



Waiting for my New Curate. 


mark. “ Eureka ! ” I cried, and I wrote in large 
letters, beneath the above : — 

“ Amico, Io vivendo cercava conforto 
Nel Monte Parnasso ; 

Tu, meglio consigliato, cercalo 
Nel Calvario.” 

I placed this last testament in the folds of the 
lace, tied the parcel carefully, carefully put it 
away, and, after the untasted dinner had been 


478 My New Curate 


removed, I lowered the lamp-flame, and sat, God 
only knows how lonely! as I had sat twelve 
months before, in my armchair, listening for the 
patter of the horse’s hoofs, and the knock at the 
door, and the sounds of alighting, that were to 
mark the advent of 


MY NEW CURATE. 




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